


Sweetheart From Another Life

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Courtship, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, Loving Marriage, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Memories, Pre-Canon, References to Canon, Romance, Smut, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: September 15, 1888 changed Edmund and Emily's lives. But in the eleven years before that day, they shared a life of ordinary joys and disappointments, built upon what they believed was an extraordinary love.





	1. Prologue: April 1892

A sweetheart from another life floats there  
As though she had been forced to linger  
From vague distress  
Or arrogant loveliness,  
Merely to loosen out a tress  
Among the starry eddies of her hair  
Upon the paleness of a finger.

 _An Image From a Past Life_  
William Butler Yeats

 

Edmund sat in a hard, straight-backed chair, still but for the erratic _tap tap-tap_ of his foot. The void of the bare room deadened the sound.

It deadened all within it.

Across the void, Emily lay asleep in her bed. Curly wisps of hair stuck to her cheek, and he twitched with the impulse to sweep them away from her face. To steal a touch, feel her warmth, confirm that she still lived.

That she still breathed, at least.

Instead, he forced his own breath past the deep ache in his chest, tilted his face toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes.


	2. August 1877

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Edmund and Emily's first date, reality intrudes upon the romantic, but doesn't ruin their evening.

“I under _stand_ the par _ti_ _c_ ulars, Edmund. But I simply do _not_ see what is so _earth-_ shattering. Yes, the man swam a con _sid_ erable distance—”

“A considerable _dist_ ance?” Despite the slow pace of his walk, Edmund’s hands flew through the air with animation and speed. “Emily, to say _mere_ ly that the man swam a considerable distance is akin to saying that the run of Pheidippides was but a protracted dash through the Greek countryside!”

“Well, now, that is not what I—”

“He swam without _aids_! Alone, from--” Edmund stopped their walk and turned to face her. “From…” As he scanned her face, two desires competed for priority inside him. The first, to sway her toward his own opinion: that Webb’s unprecedented swim across the Channel was a unique and laudable human achievement. The second—and more viscerally acute—to touch her. Her hand, her face, anywhere she might allow.

At dinner, he had gazed silently at her over their elaborate place settings, with their genuine crystal and overabundance of flatware. Despite repeated internal reproaches, he had never summoned the courage to reach across the table, touch her hand, and confess how she captivated him. When she had arrived, he had pulled a chair away from the table and offered it to her. He had closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair as she’d passed in front of him to sit. Since then, he had not come any closer to her.

Now, she clasped her hands in front of her, hardly an invitation to initiate contact. So he resumed their debate, despite his loss of steam. “From—he swam from Dover to Calais, Emily, alone. With no rest. No food. No water. And covered—”

She cut him short with a half-smothered snicker. “I’m sorry.” She flashed a mischievous smile from under the curved rim of her hat. “No _wat_ er?”

He answered with a feeble chuckle and stared into her dark, lively eyes, momentarily distracted. He thrust his hands inside his trouser pockets, where he fiddled with the fabric. “No water fit to _drink._  And covered from head to foot in porpoise oil. In choppy waters, at the mercy of sea life, ships—”

“Oh, yes, ships. It must have been difficult to paddle out of the way of enormous vessels visible for miles upon miles.”

He tilted his head at her. His frustration at her words mixed with an urge to kiss the corner of her smile. To overcome the latter, he spoke with a sterner tone than she deserved. “Miss Wilson. This feat is objectively impressive. A remarkable achievement. Yet you minimize it. Why?”

She stepped closer to him, so close that he could see her individual eyelashes. She peered at him as if she had discovered a secret, and her eyes shone with her intentions to make use of it. Edmund drew a deep breath to still the flutters in his stomach.

“I fail to see a purpose, _Mr. Reid_.” Her smile broadened at the formal address. “What does this truly _add_ to the world?”

He bowed his head and shook it. “Its purpose lies in its effect. Don’t you _see?_ ” he whispered wearily. “That a man may demonstrate such determination and perseverance...and survive a difficult—nearly im _poss_ ible—task. I find it...inspiring. I am astounded you cannot see that.”

“I see it, Edmund.”

He blinked at her, taken aback. His mouth fell open as he searched her eyes. His hot frustration cooled. “You—you do?”

“I do.”

“So you were...” He paused, his composure ruffled. “Teasing me?”

“No, Edmund.”

His heart beat harder as she whispered his name.

Lowering her eyes, she continued. “You were so quiet earlier. Throughout dinner. But when you started to speak of this Webb and his achievement, I found that I not only enjoyed the sound of your voice, Edmund, but you spoke with such enthusiasm. And every word you said made me more and more fond of you.”

He stared at her, dumbstruck.

“I...” She raised her eyes to him and smiled, a pink blush on her cheeks. “I suspected that our agreement on the matter would return you to silence sooner than if you were compelled to turn my opinion. And I...hoped, once you succeeded, I could tempt you into further conversation.”

Edmund held her gaze, unable to formulate a suitable reply. He only heard her words, over and over, in his head. _Enjoyed the sound of your voice. More and more fond of you. Tempt you. Further conversation. Fond of you._ He knew he owed her a response—an explanation—and, with a clumsy, abrupt lurch forward, he closed the distance between them. He grasped both of her hands and dropped a kiss on each one, then held them to the center of his chest. “Emily, I…I’m sorry I did not speak more to you earlier.” He swallowed. “But I assure you it was only because I wished to hear all that you—”

A sudden scream pierced the stillness around them. Edmund’s head snapped to face the noise. His eyes searched the shadows nearby.

“Edmund?” Emily’s voice wavered.

Words followed another scream. “' _elp!_ ‘elp, _please_ ”

Edmund’s blood pulsed in his ears. Tapping his breast pocket for his warrant card, he met Emily’s eyes. “Emily, I must—please don’t—I’ll return here. Please don’t leave. I must help if I can.”

She nodded. “Go.”

He loathed to leave her there, but his duty set his feet to the cobblestones and he ran, full bore, toward the cry. Defensive sounds--grunts and whimpers--drew him into a dark laneway, where he found a woman pressed to the wall by a tall, thin man, his hand inside her skirts. Edmund announced himself and attempted to seize the assailant, but he darted out of his reach and farther into the shadows. After several breathless seconds, the man outran him and vanished. Disappointed, Edmund returned to where he could still provide some assistance--to the woman, where she had crumpled at the base of the wall.  

“Madam,” he said, kneeling before her. “I am Sergeant Reid of the Metropolitan Police. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Not ‘urt, sir. Only...”

“Yes?”

“Only poorer now, sir.”

“Poorer? He stole from you?”

“Yes, sir. All I ‘ad on me. Two ‘alf crowns and a shilling.”

Neither the woman’s voice nor her eyes conveyed any hints of dishonesty, and he looked upon her with pity. He calculated the week’s remaining expenses, then reached inside his pocket. “Here.” He offered her three coins equal to those her attacker had taken.

“Oh, sir! Thank you, sir!” The woman leapt to her feet, and Edmund stood with her. “Thank--” She peered over his shoulder, her attention suddenly diverted.

Following the woman’s sightline, he turned to see Emily’s silhouette at the entrance of the laneway.

“Madam, do you require any more assistance? I’m afraid I am beyond my jurisdiction, but I will assist you in any way I can, if--”

The woman interrupted him, declined further help, and repeated her thanks before she hurried off.

He rejoined Emily where she stood. “I thought you would stay around the corner.”

“I confess myself overtook with curiosity,” she said with a small smile. After a quiet moment, she added, “That was very kind, what you did for that woman.”

“I failed her. It was the least I could do.”

They resumed their walk. “Failed her? How so?” Emily linked her arm with his.

He dropped his eyes to the stones. “Her assailant ran free. I could not capture him. And now he is free to assault and rob others, to...wreak havoc upon the people of this city.”

She pulled him to a stop.

He glanced at her face and found her forehead wrinkled with concern. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to trouble you with my--”

“You take your duty seriously.” Emily squeezed his forearm and slid her hand down to his. She held his fingers, her thumb tracing slow, light circles on his knuckles.

He nodded, watching the path of her thumb. “I do.”

“I do not find that quality troublesome. On the contrary, it is...commendable.”

“Well, one day you might see me carry out my duty with more success.”

“Perhaps.”

“Only ‘perhaps’?”

She smiled easily. “If you wish for certainty, Edmund, I suggest you ask for it.” 

A wave of warmth rushed over his skin from his chest to his face. “Emily.” He could not stop his own smile as he stared at her, nervous tension draining from his shoulders. “May I see you again?”

“Only if you promise to speak more than myself.”

He smiled wider. His voice sounded airy in his ears. “I promise.”

Emily intertwined their fingers as she resumed their walk. They continued in silence for several minutes, their hands caressing the skin of the other.

After a short distance, she stopped them again. “I can bring you lunch at the station tomorrow,” she said. “Sandwiches. Apples. Cheese. Whatever you’d like.”

“I would like...” He trailed off and paused. He exhaled forcefully. His desire to kiss her nearly overwhelmed him, and his gaze flickered from her lips to her eyes, then back to her lips. His stomach clenched. Then he let his head fall, unconcerned with how affected he might appear. “Whatever you prefer.”

He tried to memorize the warm shape of her lips as they pressed against his cheek. But the sensation faded seconds after she broke contact.

“I’m nearly home,” she said with a faint voice. Her fingertips grazed his jawbone. 

He leaned into her touch.

Then he watched her turn and head for her door.

A few minutes later, he spun on the spot and strode toward the east, smiling to himself.


	3. November 1877

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Emily's attempt to cancel their date, Edmund finds a way to spend the evening with her...and a litter of kittens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who take the time to read and follow this story. Thanks to everyone who left kudos, which are appreciated. But special thanks to everyone who left lovely comments on the last chapter--they truly mean so much to me. I welcome comments and feedback. ♥

Edmund jumped with surprise when Emily threw open her front door. He still held his fist aloft, ready to knock. Looking from her face to his fist--and feeling foolish--he quickly dropped his hand to his side.

”I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you pass by the window.” She spoke breathlessly, as if she had run to the door. Strands of hair escaped her thick plait that draped over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Edmund, but I’m afraid I must cancel.”

“Oh.” Disappointment seeped down his throat and into his chest. “Uh, well...” He tried to muster a smile for her. “I'm sure there will be another concert for us to—”

“Oh! _No!_ You little _dev_ il, you!”

For the second time in as many minutes, Edmund started, momentarily overtaken by confusion. He watched as Emily bent down and captured a tiny, fluffy-furred, all-black kitten. Short, high-pitched mews issued from its little pink mouth while it hooked its claws into Emily’s sleeve. Its small amber eyes darted all about.

“Ah!” he said, unable to stop his smile as he stroked the kitten’s paw. “So _you_ are what steals this lovely woman away from me, then? Most inconsiderate.”

Emily smiled at him, a faint blush on her cheeks. “This one and two others.” She stepped backwards, her expression soft and apologetic. “I should see whether they, too, have escaped their basket. Another in particular seems to share this one’s affinity for trouble.”

“They sound positively riotous.”

“They are, indeed.”

Emboldened by the warmth of her smile, he set his hand on the doorframe and leaned beyond the threshold. “And you wouldn’t care for any help? I am a keeper of law and order, after all.”

Emily paused to adjust the kitten in her arms. “Edmund, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

She searched his eyes for a moment before stepping to the side, her back to the wall, and beckoned him inside with a tilt of her head. As he followed her into a modest parlour, she said, “I could not have asked it of you myself, to sacrifice your evening so that you might play nursemaid.”

He could not see her face, but a pleasant rush of heat spread through his body at the sunny tone of her voice. “Well,” he replied. “I’m happy to.”

He trailed behind her to the sofa and watched her place the kitten into a basket on the floor, which still held its two siblings. When she straightened up and faced him, he took her hand. Drawing her closer to him, he whispered, “Especially if it means I can still spend the evening with you.”

The smile that blossomed on her face so immediately caused his breath to leave him. His heart seemed to somersault as she fit her hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him down to her for a kiss. Her kisses were still new, and each one awakened a thrill inside him. Each press of her lips made him forget the space—the world—that surrounded them. Every warm, wet touch of her tongue made him crave more of her—her kisses, her body, her touch—with a kind of unstoppable, desperate desire that had been, until recently, equally new to him.

A loud, drawn-out meow broke them apart.

Edmund’s heart still raced when he crouched to join Emily beside the basket. A black-and-white head popped up to the rim. The kitten clawed at the weave of the basket while it wobbled on its back paws, crying all the while. Its all-black sibling added to its chorus. The last kitten, a long-haired brown tabby, lay on its side, unmoving but for the occasional twitch of its plumed tail.

Edmund reached down to smooth the fur on each of their heads in turn. His eyes returned to the tabby. “Emily,” he whispered, hesitant to vocalize his concern lest he chase away her affectionate smile. “The tabby. It is sick?”

Emily’s lips stretched into a firm, straight line. “He must be. He has been like this...barely a movement, not a sound, since I found them.” She reached into the basket and delicately stroked the tabby’s head with her thumb. “He has not taken a speck of food. No water or milk. I know not what to do.”

“Has his condition worsened?”

She shook her head. “It’s, uh...it’s remained much same.”

Edmund’s chest contracted at the tiny tremble in her voice. An impulse sparked within him to comfort her, hold her, erase the worry-lines in her forehead with kisses. He opted to tread carefully and, instead, turned their conversation away from the tabby. “Do they have names?”

He released a breath of relief as the corners of her mouth lifted.

“I know I shouldn’t name them, since I don’t plan to keep them for myself. But...this is Lancelot”—she pointed to the tabby—“Tristan”—the black-and-white—“and Arthur”—the all-black.

He nodded, grinning at her. “And so, what does that make you? The Lady of the Lake? Beautiful enchantress?”

“Not quite a fit, I should think, as I am not about to arm any of them with—”

“ _Aaah!_ Oh, _God_!” His shout interrupted her as sword-sharp claws pierced the fabric of his trousers, just above his knee. Pain prickled his skin as he scrambled to pluck Arthur from his thigh. Raising Arthur to eye-level, Edmund shook his head at him. “You _are_ a little devil, aren’t you?” he halfheartedly chided, his voice colored with amusement. He mussed Arthur’s fur before dropping him back into the basket.

Silence fell between them, punctuated by the kittens’ mews and cries.

Several minutes later, Emily’s voice captured his attention. “Edmund?”

“Yes?” With anyone else, he would have been embarrassed by the eagerness in his voice and speed of his response.

Emily laid her hand on his arm. “May I call upon your skills to keep peace and order and ask you to watch these two while I tend to Lancelot? Perhaps he will eat, away from the others.”

Edmund glanced at her hand, flutters of nervous excitement taking flight in his stomach. He covered her hand with his. “Yes. Yes, of course.” His thumb rubbed, back and forth, over her smooth, warm skin.

He watched her leave the room and return with a saucer of milk.

While she settled on the floor with Lancelot, he moved to the sofa, resting the basket on the cushion beside him.

Across the room, Emily situated Lancelot in her lap. She whispered to the kitten with such care and compassion—qualities Edmund rarely encountered in his everyday. He found, as he watched her, that he longed to be the object of her wholehearted, avid affection. His head in her lap. Her hands in his hair. Her voice in his ear. Gentleness and warmth after a workday full of brutality and violence.

“It’s all right,” she said to Lancelot, who turned his face away from the saucer. “You’ll like this. You will.” With her pinky, she spread milk across the kitten’s mouth. It licked itself clean—a natural instinct—but made no move to feed itself. So Emily dabbed drop after drop onto his mouth. “I really am sorry to make such a mess of your face, little one. It is a cute face. But I would be much more sorry to see you starve, I promise you.”

With little effort, Edmund kept Arthur and Tristan contained. They danced along the rim of the basket, their little eyes locking onto the saucer. Once Emily finished with Lancelot, she set the others loose. They made short work of the rest of the milk.

After they’d eaten, Edmund helped Emily return them to the basket and sat with her on the sofa, the basket between them. He watched Arthur and Tristan, now sleepy, curl up beside each other. Tristan emitted a squeak as he yawned, and Edmund glanced at Emily to catch the concern that flashed across her face. She bit her bottom lip, chewed on it, while she looked over her rescues.

“Emily,” he said, his voice low and soft, but not quite a whisper. He leaned toward her, waiting until she met his eyes to continue. “You are...remarkable.”

“I...would not call myself—”

“You’ve taken in these little creatures. Cared for them. You don’t even intend to _keep_ them.”

She frowned, her eyes drifting to the sleeping kittens. “I’ve offered a temporary home to…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “It is hardly remarkable.”

“The fact that you do not think so makes it all the more—makes _you_ all the more unique. Emily, I—”  Even as her frown deepened, his chest swelled with love for her. Love he nearly professed. But its expression halted in his throat when she raised her watery eyes to him.

“I...uh. I was…” he stammered. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“What can I fetch for you?”

“Oh, Edmund, no, you needn’t—“

“If you refuse to tell me, I will dismantle your kitchen in search of anything I can cook,” he insisted, attempting to coax a smile from her.

One appeared on her face, but halfhearted and weak. “There is haddock in the icebox, but Edmund, you needn’t trouble yourself.”

Before she could protest further, he stood up and headed toward the kitchen.

He had just put the fish in the oven and found a pair of plates when Emily shouted for him.

“Edmund!” Panic edged her voice.

He abandoned the plates on the table and rushed to the parlour. Tears streaked Emily’s face.

“Edmund, he’s not…” She looked toward the basket. “I think he’s…”

He knelt beside the sofa, close to Emily, and peered into the basket. Lancelot lay still. His brothers cried around him.

“Is he…”

Edmund avoided her eyes and reached into the basket. He laid his hand on Lancelot’s little body. No movements of breath. When he pressed the pads of his fingers to the kitten’s ribs, he could sense no heartbeat.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Edmund swallowed, then reluctantly met her eyes. “I believe so.”

She crossed the room to stand at the window, her back stiff and head bowed. A fissure seemed to open inside of him and release a flow of sorrow and pity for her. He followed her and stood behind her, uncertain of whether he should touch her. Whether he should speak to her. When she remained still and silent, he decided to risk both.

He stepped closer to her and whispered, “Emily, I’m so sorry.” He had barely touched the fabric of her sleeve when she spun around and wrapped her arms around him. His arms instantly encircled her shoulders and cuddled her to him. He tried to breathe steadily as she laid her head on his chest and pressed her hands into the small of his back.

“He had barely lived, the sweet thing,” she said with a brittle voice.

Edmund stayed silent. A sharp ache permeated his body—through his chest, into his back—but he brushed it aside and concentrated on Emily. He nuzzled the top of her head, sliding one hand across her back until it curved around her ribs. With his other hand, he traced a path up and down her spine with slow, gentle strokes.

The room was silent but for the kittens’ mewls, Emily’s sniffles, the sweep of his hand over the fabric that covered her back.

Then Emily’s meek voice floated up to his ears. “I’m so sorry, Edmund.”

He craned his neck to see the side of her face. “You’re sorry?”

“It’s...it’s only a kitten, and I’ve reacted as if it were—”

“No, no. Emily.”

But again she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be sorry.” He spoke into her hair. His breath made stray, dark strands float in the air. “You are allowed to...mourn your losses, Emily, whatever they are. Be it a kitten or...whatever they are.”

She slipped her hands under his coat and clasped onto him as if he had threatened to disappear. He closed his eyes and absorbed into his memory how tightly she held him--secure, close, and with surprising strength. Tilting his head, he kissed her temple, then tucked her loose hair behind her ear. For the second time that evening, he almost told her how he cherished her. How he loved her.

But a puff of air burst from Emily—a shaky, surprised laugh—when Tristan and Arthur leapt from the basket and played at her feet.

“Look,” he said, a half-smile on his face as he pulled away from her. “These two still need you. And _you_ ”—he kissed her cheek—“still need to eat.” He offered Emily his hand, a full smile stretching across his face when she took it. “Let’s take these two monsters and teach them the taste of fish, shall we?”


	4. January 1878

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily unexpectedly turns up at the station, surprising Edmund with more than her presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continued and heartfelt thank you to all who have taken the time to read and follow this story. Thanks to everyone who left kudos, which are appreciated. But special thanks to everyone who left lovely comments--they truly mean so much to me. I welcome comments and feedback. ♥

Mid-afternoon, Edmund returned to the station, fresh from a pursuit. Behind him, a handful of constables wrestled the apprehended man toward the desk.

Edmund’s heart still pounded from the chase, but beat harder when his eyes traveled to his left and landed on Emily. _His_ Emily, _my_ Emily—he had started to call her, to himself. His Emily, ever-present in his mind and seen by him everywhere: in photographs, crowds, dreams. A week past, he had hesitated to arrest a suspected murderess due to her resemblance to Emily. Even the woman’s name—Amelia—initially misheard, had distracted him.

Now, he blinked, comforted by the certainty and reality of her presence. He rushed to her. “Emily, I hadn’t expected to see you for”—he smiled, clasping her hands—“another day, at least. Why are you here?”

“You left these,” she said, producing a pair of gloves. “It has been quite cold, Edmund. And you’ve been without them for some days. I wondered if you...missed them.”

He took his gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket. “I have,” he said, lowering both the pitch and volume of his voice. His smile remained on his face as he stepped closer to her. He met her eyes and held her gaze, unabashedly staring. “ _Dear_ ly.”

Memories of four days past flooded his mind. Tea. Cake. Lively, passionate conversation in her parlour. The sun had set. She had kissed him. Then, stripped him of his trousers, his underclothes, and had taken him into her mouth. She had made his heart lurch in his chest, had made him cry out her name into the darkness.

Friends had called upon her unexpectedly before he could lift her skirt, close his mouth over her, and repay her in kind.

For days, he had fantasized of her—her taste, her scent, her sound. He wondered if anxieties borne of their interrupted evening brought her here, now. It would have brought him to _her_ door days ago, had his work not detained him. Before him, she swayed from foot to foot. Her eyes wandered. She stood with raised, tense shoulders. A set jaw. She had not yet smiled.

“Emily…” he whispered.

She averted her eyes and remained silent. Edmund glanced about the station. It bustled with officers; none paid them any attention.

“Emily are you...upset?” He leaned down until their faces were level. “Or troubled in some way?”

“I…” She peered around them. “Is there somewhere private we can speak?”

He scanned her eyes, swallowed, and nodded. With a brief touch to the small of her back, he led her to the records room. After a quick survey of the room, he confirmed its emptiness and turned to her.

Emily locked the door. Uneasy anticipation formed a dense coil inside him.

“Edmund, I haven’t heard from you in four days.”

He bowed his head. He knew not how to articulate his experience of the last few days: that his work had kept him from her, but not an hour—not a _minute_ —had passed when she had not filled his mind. The words sounded ridiculous in his head, like fiction, overly-sentimental.

Instead, he muttered, “I’ve been here, Emily. I’ve had to be here.” He hoped to earn her sympathy with details. “A man abducted three children— _mur_ dered one—and we only _now_ just—”

“And you had no time, in those four days, to write a short note?”

“Uh. The, uh...the lack of communication was not…” Flustered, he fumbled over his words, desperate to explain, to set her mind at ease. “Emily, I would much rather have been with you than at the heels of some—”

She interrupted him with a stern voice. “Edmund, over these last several months, I have become familiar with what your work requires.” She paused and crossed her arms. “But I _know_ you can spare ten _sec_ onds to send word of your whereabouts, or when I…” When she raised her eyes to his, he noticed their wet sheen. “When I can expect to see you again. A single line would have done, Edmund.”

Distress lined her face, across her forehead and around her mouth.

Edmund’s chest contracted. An ache struck, sudden and sharp, behind his breastbone. “Emily I...I could have—I _should_ have—sent word. But I did not know you cared to—” He shook his head. “That you needed to hear—”

“Edmund.” Finally, her expression softened as she swept his hair off his forehead. “Of course I do.” With a sad smile, she trailed her fingertips behind his ear and down his neck. “I _worry_ about you. I worry about you so much. Edmund, I—”

He did not need to hear the rest. He frantically reached for her, catching her open mouth in a kiss. With his hands on her waist, he eased her backwards and sandwiched her between his body and the bookshelf. Kiss by kiss, he tried to convey his gratitude, his joyful wonder at her confession—that she _worried_ about him. His heart beat as though it had wings. His hips rolled forward, and he shuddered, abuzz with pleasure at the warm pressure of her body. He breathed fast and heavy, but deepened their kiss, driven by a desire to kiss every intimate part of her.

At a short pause in their kisses, Emily cupped his face with both hands and made him meet her eyes. “Edmund, I…” Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. “I worry about you—”

“Yes, I know.” He tilted his head for another kiss, but she stopped him.

“No. Edmund. I worry about you because I love you.”

He froze. Stared at her. His breath halted.

_I love you._

Her voice—those words, spoken aloud for the first time between them—echoed in his head as he recalled his own cowardice, dozens upon dozens of missed opportunities or ill-suited moments, all repeated failures to tell her that he loved her. Sometimes, fear had seized him. Other times, the moment had passed too quickly. But he had still hoped to please her, to bestow that happiness of love and relieve her of the need to leap first.

But Emily—his brave Emily—circled her arms around his shoulders, clung to him, and leapt a second time. “Edmund, I love you.” Her breath tumbled past his collar and down his shirt.

The sudden wave of warmth made him shiver as he wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. He kissed a line over her skin, up to her jaw, then to her mouth. His tongue pushed past her lips, and he tasted her—again and again—until a quiet hum rumbled in the back of her throat.

He dropped his hands to grip the fabric of her skirt. “Emily, I—”

A knock on the door startled them both. They broke apart. Edmund’s whole body seemed to shake with tension and unfulfilled desire.

“Ed? Ed, if you are within, best you speak up!”

He shut his eyes tightly. “I am here, sir. Do you require my assistance?”

“No, Sergeant, I am playing hide-and-seek with you.” The Inspector’s sarcasm practically snaked under the door.

“Sir—”

“We have a suspect to question, man! You will join me in his cell, Sergeant.”

Edmund sighed, frustrated. Gently touching his forehead to Emily’s, he whispered, “I must go.”

She nodded, then raised herself to stand on her toes. She kissed him with slow, deliberate movements. Her hands _clutched_ at his shoulders. Her fingertips dug into his muscle. He could feel her desperation, practically taste it on her lips, and realized that—like an _idiot_ —he had never properly responded.

Aware that it would further try his Inspector’s patience, he did not yet move toward the door. Instead, he whispered, more rushed than he preferred, “How I wish, Emily, I could now take you home, and kiss you, and tell you—and _show_ you—” He took her hands from his shoulders and held them. “Show you how I love you.” He bent his head and kissed the back of her hands. He pressed one to his cheek and closed his eyes as he imagined his wish-made-real, and all he would do to show her how he adored her.

“Sergeant!”

Edmund raised his head and found Emily’s eyes—dark and beautiful. “I love you, Emily. I have loved you for...months. _Months_.”

“I know, darling. I’ve seen it.”

_Darling._

The simple endearment made him breathless. He squeezed her hands. A knot seemed to block his throat, and he cleared it. “I’m so sorry I never—”

“Sergeant, if you _ever_ hope to be promoted to De _tect_ ive Sergeant, you will unlock this door and make your way downstairs, with me, _now._ ”

With reluctance, he released her hands and backpedaled away from her. “Will you be at home later?”

“Yes,” she whispered, so softly that he barely heard her.

“Can I—”

“Yes.” She still whispered, but her voice brightened with a full, wide smile.

Edmund returned her smile. He allowed his gaze to linger upon her for a moment before he forced himself to hurry out of the room.


	5. May 1878

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund and Emily have a fight after a tense evening with Emily’s cousin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! Everyone who continues to read, leave wonderful kudos, and take the time to write marvelous comments: you are absolutely amazing. You make my day. You really do. I definitely enjoy writing for myself, but knowing you’re out there and seeing your comments really help me stay motivated to keep writing. Thank you. 
> 
> I welcome comments and feedback. ♥

“He was _wrong_ , Emily.”

Edmund stormed out of the restaurant and onto the street. He and Emily had dined with her cousin, Richard. After they had eaten, Richard had launched into a diatribe that had ruffled Edmund’s police-blue feathers and caused Edmund to fly from the table as soon as a lull had presented itself.

Emily took two steps for each of his, just to keep up with him. “Even so, Edmund. You could have been the better man, instead of--”

He snapped his head to the side and glared at her. “Instead of _what_? Defending myself and my profession against lies and--”

“They weren’t _lies_. They were opinions.”

“Misinformed opinions. With no basis in _fact_.” With each heavy stride, Edmund’s temper worsened. Richard’s remarks circled like noisy buzzards in his head. Acidic indignation churned in his stomach.

“However you choose to characterize them, Edmund.”

Her flippant tone made him stop and turn to face her. He spoke in a strained hiss. “Accurately! I characterize them accurately! He claimed all police officers to be in _ept_! And I re _fuse_ to let anyone degrade _me_ and _my_ work, cousin or no.”  

“I never expected you to be _quiet_ , Edmund, but you needn’t have argued so rudely.” Stubbornness flashed in her eyes before she resumed their walk. He usually admired her tenacity, but now he silently cursed it.

“ _Rude_ ly?” he shouted. His heels struck the cobblestones with a _clack_ nearly as loud and sharp as his voice. Fury bubbled up his throat. “No, I reacted as _any_ man would when he finds himself the subject of insults and slurs.”

“But you are not _any man_ ,” she said, her voice hard with impatience. “I know you are capable of making a pointed response without belittling everyone who disagrees with you.”

He studied her face, his suspicions suddenly raised. As he took a moment to reconsider her words, he realized what irked him. “Was there someone else?”

“What?”

He walked closer to her and lowered his voice. “You said ‘ _everyone_ who disagrees with you.’ I was speaking only of your cousin, but it seems _you_ were referring to someone else. And since you were the only other person present, I must conclude that you referred to yourself.”

She looked at her feet and slowed to a stop.

Edmund stared at her. He breathed through the blend of pain and anger in his chest. “Emily.” Her silence in the restaurant had bothered him, but this--not mere ab _stent_ ion but outright opposition...this lashed at the very core of him.

He peered around dumbly, suddenly aware that they had arrived at her door.

Emily glanced at the door, shifting from foot to foot.

“Emily, you can not…” His voice softened with hurt and disappointment, his outrage dissipating. He reached toward her, but decided not to touch her and, instead, let his hand fall to his side. “You _agree_ with him?”

“I don’t know.” She trained her eyes on the wet stones of the street.

Edmund’s shoulders drooped. His chest deflated as if she had beaten the air from it. “Emily, this--” He spread his hand over the center of his chest. “This is who I am. It will _al_ ways be--”

“And I admire you greatly for--”

“How?” he asked, pleading for clarity. “How can you admire me if you believe that the police are ineffective, callous--”

“Edmund.”

“--and what else did he say?”

“I did _not_ say that I--”

“Oh, yes. Intent on fulfilling violent fantasy rather than serving the public?”

“Edmund, please.”

“ _Crim_ inals in _un_ iform.” The derision with which he spat this last comment spawned a weighty silence between them. He paused and tried to collect himself, closing his eyes. “Emily, you _know_ me. How can you _poss_ ibly--”

“I can think well of _you_ , Edmund, but--”

Resentment flared like a fire under his ribs. “But the force in which I serve is rotten, is it? The force to which I devote my knowledge and skills, day after day, is--what? Broken? Somehow dis _taste_ ful to you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “All I mean to say is--”

He had heard all he cared to hear. His expression hardened as he adjusted his coat. “I must to work, Emily.”

“It is nine o’clock. You had no shift scheduled tonight.” Her eyes pleaded with him to stay. “Come inside.”

“Criminals are still active at night, uniformed or otherwise.”

“That is not fair.”

“No, nothing about this is _fair_ , Emily. Goodnight.”

He turned away from her and headed in the direction of the station. Emily was right; he had no shift scheduled that night, but he wanted to work-- _needed_ to work--and focus his mind on useful, constructive pursuits.

The sun had just begun to rise when a courier arrived at the station with an armful of correspondence. Edmund greeted the man, enquiring after his business. The courier deposited dozens of individual letters on the desk, leaving Edmund to sift through the pile. The letters, written in an instantly recognizable hand, were addressed to the officers that worked at the station, one for each man.

When he uncovered the letter that bore his name, he ripped it open and read Emily’s words. Her professed admiration for his efforts to protect the public. Her respect for his dedication to a cause higher than himself. An apology for her doubt and silence. She ended with a simple statement of her love for him.

A grin tugged at his mouth. He imagined the other letters ended in quite a different fashion. But as he watched his fellow officers read their letters and smile at this rare praise, he made a mental note to thank Emily for her kindness. And warn her of the love letters she may well expect from half of his division.


	6. September 1878

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their first visit to her childhood home, Emily and Edmund escape her family for some brief but life-altering time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! Everyone who continues to read, leave wonderful kudos, and take the time to write marvelous comments: you are absolutely amazing. You make my day. You really do. I definitely enjoy writing for myself, but knowing you’re out there and seeing your comments really help me stay motivated to keep writing. Thank you so very much. 
> 
> I truly adore comments and feedback. ♥

“Pardon me, Mama.”

Edmund’s head swiveled to find Emily at his side for the first time in an hour.  

She smiled sweetly to her mother, who had been in animated conversation with Edmund about her own youth. “I haven’t yet treated Edmund to a tour of the house, Mama, and I would like to do so before dinner.”

That afternoon, Edmund had been whisked from the foyer of Emily’s childhood home and taken to her father’s study. A snifter of brandy had not parted with his hand while he treaded conversational waters with Emily’s father and uncle. Then, another room and tea with Emily’s mother and sister.  Emily’s mother had shoved a tin of biscuits at him and, after nibbling through three of them, he had yearned to find Emily and escape to a quiet place. A deserted room. The garden. A broom cupboard, if necessary.

Now, with Emily finally back in his orbit, he gravitated to her. When she took his hand and led him away, he tossed a half-hearted apology over his shoulder to her mother. For the first time since their arrival, he drew a full, deep breath.

Emily turned to him at the bottom of the stairs. “You looked like you needed to be rescued.”  

He smiled at her tease. “Indeed, I did.” His hand pulsed around hers.

“I see you’ve charmed Mama,” Emily said, climbing the stairs.

He released her hand and followed her. “Have I?”

“She seemed quite disappointed to lose your company.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it. I certainly did _not_ charm your uncle.”

She waved her hand. “That man is impossible to charm.”

“I could not remember his _name_ , Emily.”

“Oh, _Edmund_. Really?” She tried to stifle her laughter as she reached the second floor, but a wave of airy giggles escaped her.

He could not rid himself of his embarrassment to join in with her amusement.

“Well, take comfort in this,” she said. “You could not have charmed him, even if you had been able to recall his name and entire life story.”

“Why? I am perfectly amicable and—” He followed her down a carpeted corridor, fishing for an appropriate word.

“Grave?”

“No,” he said, indignant at her suggestion.

“Solemn?”

“ _No!_ Emily, you cannot think me so Cimmerian as that.”

“Of course not, Edmund. Not with  _me._ Not with those who are familiar to you. But with others, when you feel threatened, you…”

“What?”

“You tend to adopt a rather formidable air.” Emily stopped with him before a set of wooden double doors.

“Formidable?” Standing tall, he squared his shoulders and stared at her.  

“See,” she teased. “Exactly like that.”

His mouth fell open. He quickly snapped it shut. Consciously relaxing his posture, he battled with an impulse to smile and bit his bottom lip to prevent it.

“Edmund, you may never hope to charm my uncle, but you needn’t worry.” She stood on her toes, laid one hand on his shoulder to balance herself, and whispered, “Put him from your mind, my love. I rather hoped to be alone with you.”

His heartbeat quickened as she slid her hand down his arm and interlaced their fingers.

She offered him a soft smile and, just as softly, squeezed his hand. “This place is special to me.”

When she opened the door, Edmund’s eyes swept over the room. Dark, polished wood and fine fabrics decorated the space. Thick curtains framed tall, thin windows. Sunbeams pooled on lush carpets.

Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls.

“My family has spent generations developing this library,” she said, her voice hushed and reverent, as if they had just entered a cathedral. She led him to a plush, upholstered armchair. “When Elizabeth and I were small, we would sit on the floor before my father’s chair while he read to us.”

He pictured little Emily and her sister immersed in a story, their eyes wide and attentive. A small slice from a childhood Emily had described as comfortable and carefree.

A frown pulled at his mouth. Doubt ballooned in his chest. Questions about himself, his life—all that he could offer, and all that he could not—whipped through him like an icy wind.

Emily’s voice interrupted his silent contemplation, but he missed her words; they entered his ears jumbled and distorted, as if underwater.

“Hmm?” he asked, still half-distracted.

She stood near the shelves, her hand spread across book spines. He had not noticed when she had moved there.

“I asked if you like it.”

“Oh,” he said with short, humorless laugh. “Yes. Yes, it’s marvelous. I wish my own childhood had been blessed with such a place.”

She smiled for a moment, then turned to pull a book from the shelf. Edmund watched her from where he stood, still beside her father’s chair. Her smile broadened as she opened the book and browsed its pages. A lock of her hair fell from the bundle at the top of her head and curled across the nape of her neck. She read on.

She did not raise her head when he crossed the room to stand behind her.

“My favorite book,” she said. “My father came home with a copy for me when it was new. I was ten, I think.”

He peered at the title that stretched across the top of the page. _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.

She smiled over her shoulder. “I loved the White Rabbit.” Her voice rose with delight. “And Alice, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I would duck behind our Daphne shrubs and pretend to chase the White Rabbit for hours and hours.”

“Quite like the real Alice.” He smiled and circled his arms around her waist.

“The _real_ Alice?” she asked, replacing the book on its shelf.

“Alice Liddell,” he replied. When she did not respond, realization struck him. “You do not know how the story originated?”

“I cannot say that I do, but...” She turned in his arms and linked her hands behind his neck. “I can already see you are anxious to educate me.”

“Yes, well,” he said through a grin. “The idea came to Lewis Carroll when he spent the day on the Isis with the three daughters of the Dean of Christ Church."

“And the real Alice was one of the daughters, I presume?”

He nodded. “Apparently, she would, uh, run around half of Oxford, chasing rabbits.” His hands followed the curve of her back and pulled her closer. “Perhaps one day we can...retrace her steps. Picnic in the Christ Church meadow. Punt on the river. Swerve lazily up and down the gravel paths of the Botanic Garden.”

Emily smiled up at him. “That sounds lovely, Edmund,” she whispered, resting her head on his chest. Her hand brushed his collar on the way to the back of his head. She combed her hand through his hair, over and over, in a slow, continuous pattern.

Her name left him in a whisper so quiet he doubted that she heard him. “Emily,” he repeated, barely any louder than before.

In response, she pressed a warm kiss to the side of his neck.

“Emily, will you marry me?”

In his arms, she went still.

Edmund’s breath rasped out of him. It bounced off the walls and returned to assault his ears—the only sound in the room. His stomach clenched and twisted. “Emily. Marry me. Be my—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. Heat flooded his face. “Be my wife. I love you. Please, Emily.”

She raised herself to her tip-toes and buried her face in the curve of his neck. She did not speak.

Each second seemed to last an eon. His throat threatened to close. His heart thrummed with a feverish rhythm. Sweat trickled down his back. Her stillness—her _silence_ —persisted.

He released her.

He cast his gaze to the floor as the sharp, cold pain of rejection clustered in the center of his chest.

Finally, she moved. She stepped forward and, with the tips of her fingers, raised his chin. When he met her eyes, she threw her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him.

He nearly collapsed when she whispered in his ear, “Yes. God, Edmund. Yes, of course.”

Then her mouth met his, her hands on either side of his face. She kissed him with force, with palpable, visceral love. With unconditional acceptance.

A moan broke in the back of his throat. He wound his arms around her and held her, _gripped_ her, kept her still. Kept her _t_ _here._

Even after she broke the kiss, his mouth chased after hers. Her breathless, joyful laugh looped around his heart as he landed another kiss on her cheek.

“I was worried you’d never ask,” she whispered.

“I was worried you’d never answer.”

“I did not expect it. Not at that moment. You took me by surprise.”

“I, uh...I confess I did not plan it. I—” He shook his head, embarrassed. “I do not even have a ring for you.”

“Truly, Edmund, I don’t need one.” With a tender smile, Emily pulled his head down and touched her forehead to his. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath.

His hands played at the waist of her dress. “Well, you shall have one.”  

They stood, both of them silent, for several minutes. Edmund could have stayed that way for the remainder of the day, their foreheads pressed to one another, her hands roaming his back, his arms loose and relaxed around her shoulders. Their breaths calm and easy.

But the sound of a bell called to them from the floor below.

“That will be dinner,” Emily said. She unraveled herself from his embrace and took his hand. “And my family will want to hear the news.”

Even as he allowed her to lead him out of the room, he felt the blood drain from his face. Nervous flutters rose anew in his stomach. “Emily, I haven’t yet spoken to—”

She stopped him at the top of the stairs and brushed his cheek with her knuckles. “There is no need for nerves, I promise you,” she whispered, her expression full of comfort and reassurance. “While they might frown upon a child before we are married, my family is not so old-fashioned as to require their permission for me to marry in the first place.” She offered him a playful smile. “Except my uncle. He is old-fashioned. But since you cannot fall further in his estimation, you need not worry.”

Horrified, he watched her flee down the stairs. “What? Wait! Emily! I thought you said—” But she had already reached the bottom of the steps, leaving him to hurry after her.


	7. February 1879

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world gives Edmund and Emily a special wedding present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thank yous to everyone who's been following this story. I continue to be so thrilled, especially by the lovely comments. Thank you so, so much. <3

On the eighth of February of 1879, London witnessed a heavier snowfall than it had seen in over fifteen years.

Edmund remembered frolicking through snow drifts as high as his eleven-year-old shoulders. His mother had called to him from their front door as he’d played in their empty street. He had resisted her bribes of tea and cake—the latter, a rare treat—so he could roll behind stalls and escape imaginary villains.  

Now, a grown man and newly married, he squinted at the white-covered streets and waited for Emily to join him. She lingered in the doorway with her parents, who had hosted their wedding breakfast in a rented house on Stutfield Street. He heard the smile in Emily’s voice as she thanked them, professed her happiness.

A quiet peace befell him. The city lay still and silent. No horses clod past. No lights glimmered in storefront windows. Not one person walked the streets.

Behind him, a door closed softly. He looked over his shoulder to find Emily—and only Emily—standing amidst the snow in shades of black and white, as if the snowy world had created her. She wore a white coat, trimmed in white-grey fur; he had purchased it for her. He had bought her boots as well—tall, treated with seal oil, fur-lined. He had purchased nothing special for himself.

Edmund’s eyes traveled to Emily’s dark hair and eyes—stark contrasts to the surrounding landscape. The sweet taste of raspberry jam still coated his tongue and, as his gaze flickered to her lips, he wondered what flavors he might discover in her kisses.

A month previous, he had secured a new home for them, a mere quarter-mile away. He wet his lips, anxious for the moment when he could lead her through the door of their home, shut out the world, and explore her, _taste_ her.

For now, he turned to her, calm and smooth-voiced. “You will be warm enough, walking home?”

Emily lifted the hem of her coat and skirt and displayed her tall boots. “With these? I believe I am fit to trek the Siberian tundra _and_ represent the height of fashion. Positively un _match_ ed in style.”

He glanced at her feet, then her face, smiling freely. “Quite so.”

“I only fear _your_ boots, without such ample insulation, will fail to provide such comfort and warmth.”

She shuffled through the snow to stand before him, nearly nose to nose. The vapor of her breath rose between their faces.

“The sensible course of action”—she stepped even closer—“would be to remove you from this weather.” She paused, then lowered the volume of her voice. “To rid you of these chilled clothes. Warm you in our bed. Surround you with blankets.” She raised her chin and tilted her head. Her lips hovered a hair’s width away from his when she whispered, “And with myself.”

For a moment, he closed his eyes, indulging in his imagination: Emily’s warm, soft, naked body fused to his in their new bed. “You _are_ a sensible woman,” he whispered, eyes still shut.

“But perhaps not as sensible as you would think.” For the briefest second, her lips grazed his, and he waited for her to kiss him fully. But instead of her warm mouth, she surprised him with a handful of cold snow, dropped down the back of his shirt.

He yelped and tensed with icy shock as she took off at a run. The seconds he needed to recover provided her with a head-start, but he darted after her. She ran with impressive speed. He chased her around two corners, led by the sound of her voice.  Cold air carved its way down his windpipe. Breezed over his face, numbed his nose and cheeks. His chest heaved as he slowed to a stop. Emily had disappeared.

He silently chided himself; he had not tracked her by her footprints. He knew she must be close. She had been just ahead of him. She likely hid herself in a shadowed doorway. A narrow lane way, perhaps. She would not have ducked into a shop; none were open.

As he surveyed the street, he shook his head and smiled. The storm had transformed Whitechapel, their new home, into an empty, silent labyrinth—theirs to explore, perfect for this game of hide-and-seek and a brief, makeshift honeymoon. A real one had been denied them by Edmund’s work, but the world had, at least, given them this: a private, white expanse of city-earth.

“Emily?” he called, first in one direction, then another.

An answer came from his left when a snowball sailed toward him and exploded on his shoulder. Another quickly followed. Before he could duck, it knocked the top hat from his head.

He bent to retrieve it, then dashed into the alleyway from which both snowballs had flown. He found Emily behind a stack of enormous wooden boxes. She beamed at him with a smile that rivaled the one she had worn when they had promised themselves to each other.

Edmund hurried to trap her, press her to the wall. “Did you really believe you could hide from me?” he whispered, his hands at her waist. His face—his body—close to hers.

Her smile vanished. “Did you really believe I wanted to?”

The tone of her voice prompted him to stare at her. Words escaped him, so he shook his head. He looked from her eyes to her lips, but before he could kiss her, she sidestepped him.

She walked to the end of the lane way, and he followed. When she stopped, he curled his arms around her waist and looked out at the street with her. The snow drifted with the wind. It swirled about them. Then, landed and melted in Emily’s hair. He rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence, until she eased out of his arms.

She brushed snow off his coat before she kissed him, short and chaste.

But, on their walk home, she looked at him with unveiled desire. She smiled as she bit her bottom lip. Her fingertips maneuvered past the fabric of his sleeves and stroked the underside of his wrist.

When they finally opened the door of their new address, they tripped and tumbled over the threshold, into the warmth of the house.

They left a trail of clothes to the bedroom. Their mouths kissed still-cold skin, even as they fell onto the bed. Emily paused only to unpin her hair before she eased him onto his back and sat astride him.

She set her hands on his shoulders and lavished him with hot, fierce kisses. Marriage had, it seemed, emboldened her. They had been intimate before, but they had always been judicious and careful. They had kept the frequency to a minimum—as much as their impulses had allowed—and, at Emily’s request, he had always withdrawn before his end. It had always made him feel bizarrely bereft and he had wished, desperately, to remain inside her, but each time he had done as she’d asked.

But now, she made no such request. Instead she brushed her lips against his ear and whispered, “Edmund, I needn't tell you there is no longer a reason to exercise restraint. I wish to feel you, to have you…”

Anticipation spread over him. His muscles tensed. His body responded with involuntary twitches as her hands slid down his body. She touched him with confidence, with  _possession,_ and he tossed his head on the pillow, already breathless, dizzy with frantic desire.

“Emily.” He paused to breathe. “Would you not rather go slow?”

“We have the rest of our lives for _slow_ , Edmund.” She grinned. “Now. Touch me. Here.”

Edmund stared at her as she cupped her own breasts, watched as she caressed herself. She dropped her hands and raised her chest—an invitation for him to touch her. Without hesitation, he reached for her.  He pinched her nipples, squeezed her breasts. His hips lifted to push his cock against the warmest part of her.

He wanted her hand—her _mouth—_ on his cock, but she needed his attention first. “Now here,” she whispered, her voice thin. Her hand moved between her legs. She stroked herself, firm and slow. Her face tilted toward the ceiling.

Edmund followed the long, pale line of her neck. He thought he saw her pulse flutter beneath her skin, but—he silently admitted—he may have imagined it. His hands glided down her body and over her thighs—her skin still cold, and an exhilarating contrast to the heat that spilled over his cock.

He let himself look at her, watch her writhe on him, before he fulfilled her request—her demand—and moved her hand aside to touch her. He rubbed her with the pad of his thumb, exactly where she had pleasured herself. Steady. Hard. Her eyes closed. Her moans—gasps and half-words—all filled his ears and excited him. Made him harder. Thick, and hot, and ready for her. Desperate for her.

He drew a sharp breath, nearly choking on it, when she pushed his hand away and wrapped her hand around his cock. He moaned at her touch, loud and deep. She gently squeezed him, making his whole body tense, before she lowered herself down and took him inside her.

Then she moved on him, fast and hard. She flattened her hands on his chest, pushing him into the mattress. He stared, amazed, and watched every fluid motion of her body as she took her pleasure from him. Her eyes fluttered open and shut. Her mouth fell open. A sheen of sweat glistened on her stomach, her breasts. Her skin flushed pink. The sunlight lit her face as her pleasure overtook her. She was heart-achingly beautiful.

For a moment, he had to summon all of his concentration. He closed his eyes, drawing as deep a breath as possible. All in an effort to stop the rise and intensity of the sensation that threatened to build beyond his control and overwhelm him. To put a halt to his own pleasure so he could wait for her.

His concentration nearly broke when she dropped her chin to her chest and went still. He felt her throb and pulse around him. Grip and release him. Her voice burst out of her and ricocheted off the walls of their room and into his ears. Her knees trembled at his sides as she leaned over him, her hands suddenly in his hair, on his face, his neck. Her lips followed her hands and sent him into a frenzy of desire for her.

He breathed hard and forced her off him, flipping her onto her back. He met her eyes, feeling the clench of his heart and the pull of anticipatory pleasure in his cock, at the base of his spine.

He pushed inside her with an even stroke. They both released shaky, drawn-out moans. He let his forehead fall beside her ear, and his body heaved with harsh breaths as he rocked inside her. Slick. Warm. Tight. _His._

_God._

She had chosen him. Accepted him. _Married_ him.

The knowledge—the realization—made his chest contract. Made his breath stutter.

He whispered her name, nuzzled her neck, and drove himself into her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clasping onto him.

“Uh, God. Emily.” His voice sounded foreign. Too rough and raspy in his ears.

But she answered immediately. “Edmund. Yes. _Yes._ ” Her voice—raw and vulnerable—spurred him on, and he planted sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on the side of her face.

“Emily. My Emily.”

Tension built inside him when she scratched her nails down his back. She moaned and whispered breathlessly, and he echoed her.

He inhaled sharply when she pressed her heels into the back of his thighs and held him inside her. She held his whole body against her as she raised her hips and opened her legs—further, wider, allowing his hips to fit flush against her.

Her lips kissed his ear as she whispered, “Edmund. My love. My _hus_ band.”

Her words sent a shock through his body, and he lifted his head to look at her. She met his gaze with clear, open eyes and swept his hair off his forehead. She traced his bottom lip with her thumb. His breath flew out of him. It poured over her thumb, a burst of humid air. He angled his head to kiss the inside of her wrist, then the soft, smooth skin of her forearm.

 _God, she was his. She was his. He was her husband. She was his wife. His_ wife.

“I love you. God. Emily, I love you.”

His movements turned erratic. One moment, he entered her with a long, smooth thrust. Another, with a jerky spasm. But Emily seemed not to care. She stroked his hair and kissed his jaw. His cheek. His lips. She whispered to him with an affectionate, soft voice. “Give yourself to me, Edmund. Please.”

He could no longer form words. He gasped, sucked in his breath and expelled it fast. Fractured half-moans tumbled out of him. Breaths, sounds—all beyond his control.

“I want you. Edmund.”

Her words, her touch, her softness, her heat—all forced his pleasure to break over him, and he shuddered as he drowned in his release. Emily held him fast to her, secure but tender. Surrounded by her, he experienced a longer, more intense climax. He shook with it, turning his face toward Emily, his whimpers and gasps muffled by her hair.

As his pleasure finally ebbed, he breathed a soft laugh.

“What?” Emily whispered, still wrapped around him.

He trailed kisses across her face. “God, Emily. That was wonderful. You are wonderful.”

She smiled, guiding him into a gentle, unhurried kiss. When she pulled away, she met his eyes. Another smile played across her face. “And _you_ are heavy, darling,” she teased, pushing him onto his back.

The sun had already begun to set, bathing the room in golden-orange light.

“Shall I start a fire?” he asked, clamoring under the bedclothes with her.

She shook her head and stretched out beside him, lying her head on his shoulder. “Here,” she said, pulling the blankets to her chin. “We shall keep each other warm.”

Curled around him, she fell asleep within minutes. Darkness crept across the room, and Edmund closed his eyes to it. His body slackened with joyful exhaustion and, before the sun completely set, he let the sounds of Emily’s deep breaths lull him into sleep.


	8. June 1880

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An abduction. A forgotten cap. A gang of criminals. A showdown in Leman Street. And Edmund and Emily, in the midst of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More well-deserved thanks to everyone reading along! I had such an enjoyable time writing this chapter, but, of course, I always long to hear what you think. So, thank you, to all who take the time to comment and share their thoughts! It means so much to me.

Sound returned to him first. A steady _click-clop_ of horseshoes. Wheels on cobblestones.   

Next, motion. Touch. The uneven roll and bounce of a carriage. He sat on the floor, his back to the door. His wrists ached; a thin wire bound them behind his back. His shins made contact with the toes of boots on either side of him. His skull throbbed, exacerbated by the strip of fabric tied around his head to block his vision.

He assumed he had lost consciousness, but he could recall neither how nor where. He remembered very little from the time he had left his house and started his walk toward the station.

Shifting his head, he tried to peek under the cloth to glimpse even a tiny slice of the world.

A man’s voice sing-songed from above him. “Aah! Look here!”

Another voice replied, deeper but hoarser, and from the opposite seat. “Our lawman stirs, I see.”

“ _See,_ unlike ‘im!”

Chuckles rumbled from the men’s throats. Only two men, by the sound of it.

Edmund swallowed, more alert now. He trained all of his focus on the sounds around him—the men's voices, shuffles of movement, outside noises. “Who are you? How did you know I was—”  

“That you was _blue_?”

“You got that stench about you.”

Edmund dismissed the insult. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“You got somethin’ we want. Or, well, you coppers do.”

“And what is that?” Edmund nearly toppled sideways, into the seat bench, as the carriage suddenly halted.

“No more time for questions.”

Both men hauled him off the floor, uninterested in sparing his body further knocks and bumps, and shoved him from the carriage. Edmund stumbled when his feet struck the street, but reclaimed his balance with a few blind steps.

He need not have made the effort.

A pair of hands came down upon his shoulders and pushed him to his knees. Without his hands to soften the fall, he landed hard on the stone.

Sharp, marrow-deep pain sped outward from his knees—down to his toes, up to his hips. His head dropped to his chest as a choked cry caught in his throat. His teeth clenched. His body curled forward, but only until a hand gripped his hair and pulled his head up and back, forcing him to straighten his spine.

But for the sound of his own heavy breaths, the world had fallen quiet. He waited, determined to hold himself as still as possible.

“Inspector Abberline!” A third voice shouted from his left. The driver, no doubt. “Come out, come out, Inspector!”

Half a minute passed. Then a wooden door slammed against brick. Feet stepped and shuffled in the near-distance.

Edmund twitched when a knife blade slipped between his head and the blindfold, but sighed when the cloth fell away from his face. With his head still pulled back, he saw only the overcast sky and the face of his captor.

“You have our brother, Inspector.”

“Indeed!” Inspector Abberline shouted. “Locked in our cells for the murder of a bank teller in the course of a robbery, we do. And you will soon join him, my boy, for the abduction of a Metropolitan Police officer.”

“You call this a police officer? One so easily taken not two streets from his own home?”

Edmund winced as his captor jerked his head down to show his face. When he met the Inspector’s eyes, he could not stop the silent pleas that surfaced on his face: _Help me. Help me. Get me out of this._ Abberline’s head moved with the faintest of nods before his eyes shifted away from Edmund and to the man that still held him by the hair.

“One of our finest, in fact,” said Abberline, as cool as a water pipe in winter.

The compliment barely resonated in Edmund’s mind. He scanned the small crowd that had spilled from the station and stopped on the face that, at that moment, he wished to see least of all.

Emily.

Trapped behind a line of officers, she stared at him, her features contorted with fear. Her dark, beautiful eyes widened with silent panic. She clutched his soft brown cap with bloodless knuckles.

His breath left him with a shudder. He shook his head, his gaze fixed to hers, imparting wordless instructions: _Go back inside. Get yourself safe. Don’t watch this. Go inside._

Emily remained frozen in place.

Fingers twisted in his hair, and he inhaled sharply. He closed his eyes, losing sight of Emily.

“Your _fine_ man for ours, Inspector! Or yours will suffer a death more painful—certainly more bloody—than the one that awaits our brother.”

“I’m afraid we do not deal in _trades,_ boy.”

“Oh, do you not?” Edmund glanced at his captor, who pointed at him with the tip of a blade. “This one not valuable enough to you, then?”

Then the cluster of police—and Emily with them—fell out of view. Edmund careened toward the earth, face-first, thrown down and unable to stop his own motion. When he landed, he rocked onto his side, lifting his head to keep from kissing the cobblestone. He wondered, as he rolled, if Emily believed him weak, if shame now welled in the pit of her the way it did in him.

“Or d’you think we will not slit his throat in front of you, if you refuse to give us what we want?”

The pointed toe of the man’s boot lodged itself in the notch of Edmund’s ribcage, depressing his diaphragm and expelling every scrap of air. Another swift kick prevented him from filling his lungs, and he gasped for breath. In an effort to calm himself, he recited Emily’s name in his head, stretching each syllable across his mind. Again, then again.

“Do you think that we will not take pleasure in his slaughter?”

Before the question faded, the same boot kicked again and burrowed in between his shoulder blades. Edmund’s roar echoed off the buildings that lined Leman Street. When he inhaled, the scent of dirt, mud, piss, manure—the elements of London’s streets—flooded his nose. Fiery pain radiated from his spine as he raised his head, searched for Emily, and found her. She gripped the constable that stood in her way and leaned forward like a sprinter at a starting line. Love and fear blazed in her eyes.

God, he loved her. As he looked at her, the pain in his body eased—only a little, but enough for him to bear it. He longed to kiss her, perhaps, he realized, for the last time. Memorize the texture of her hair. Commit her scent to memory. Then take it—take _her—_ with him wherever he went if today he departed this life.

Silver metal flashed before his face and broke through his thoughts. A knife hovered above his throat. He lay still. Hope of release, of rescue, teased at his heart.

“That we will not _gut_ him like the _pig_ he is?” Edmund flinched as his captor angled the knife and, with it, touched his skin.

“No! No, please! Don’t!”

Edmund held his breath and watched, horror-struck, as Emily darted forward, shouting. “Emily! No!” he yelled. “No, go back!”

His captor squeezed his throat—hard—and he coughed, unable to speak another word. But, even as he collapsed back onto the street, relief surged through him. Two young constables intercepted Emily and forced her backwards, through the open doorway, and into the station.

“Oo-o-o-h! Well,” sneered the driver. “Looks like someone—Miss _Emily,_ is it?—does not share your confidence, Inspector. Who is this, then? The missus?”

The knife cut through Edmund’s waistcoat, then his shirt, and both fell open to expose his torso. His captor aimed the knife at his chest. “She yours, pig?”

Emily appeared in a first floor window. On the steps, Abberline turned to an officer beside him. The officer ran into the station, pulling two others with him.

“I said, ‘ _Is she yours?_ ’”

The knife turned. Its sharp edge met with his chest, left-of-center. Edmund drew fast, shallow breaths. He glanced from Abberline to Emily.

She leaned flat against the window, spreading her hands on the glass. Edmund called to mind the comfort of her touch, warm and full of affection, on his back, his shoulders, his face. He remembered one night last, when she curled her limbs around him, pulled him down to her—pulled him _into_ her—and held him. Kissed him as he slowly moved within her.

“Yes,” he whispered. “She is.”

An ache—sharper than any blade—pierced his chest, and he tore his gaze away from Emily.

Then the knife itself broke his skin. It slashed a line down the center of his abdomen, from chest to navel. Edmund’s mind reeled with terror. He gasped through gritted teeth and looked down at himself, suddenly aware of the panic-pace of his heart, the rush of his blood. The cut oozed red—shallow, but deep enough to bleed. 

“He bleeds, Inspector! And we will slash him open if you do not act!”

Edmund let his head fall to the stones. He followed the movements of clouds in the sky. 

“Do you labor under the impression,” Abberline said, “that we will not do so?”

“Release our brother, Inspector! Do it now!”

Despite the man’s impatience, threats and taunts continued to fly from one man to the other, crackling across the open street like voltage across a hot wire. Edmund lay, numb and light-headed. He blinked and dragged his gaze across the face of the station house. His eyes lingered on Emily’s sea-blue figure for a moment before flitting to the roof, where three officers ducked low, armed with rifles.

Seconds later, gunshots exploded. Edmund curled up, like a startled helpless pill bug. Bullets whizzed around him, and he heard the _thud_ s and agonized cries of men shot.

In the fray, his captor fell upon him. The knife fell with him. Edmund inhaled sharply as the knife carved a deep gash into his side. In that moment, the world slowed. Sounds faded to a low murmur. Objects blurred. The heat of his own blood warmed his skin as it flowed down to the street. His peripheral vision began to blacken, but he forced himself to focus on the spot of blue that suddenly floated above him.

“Em…”

“Edmund.”

The features of her face were clear to him only in his mind. His eyes saw her face in fuzzy colors.

Then, dead weight lifted. Air in his lungs. His hand freed. The rip of fabric and a blue ribbon-blur. Pressure at his side.

He winced, eyes closed.

“Edmund? Edmund?”

Emily, her voice panic-laced.

“Look at me. Edmund, you look at me.”

His attention shifted, aimless. As if he were drunk. He stared at Emily, or where she seemed to drift above him. He blinked hard with the hope that he would open his eyes and see the world as he knew it—see his wife as he knew her—not as a still-wet, upside-down watercolor.

Around him, voices. Men. Police. Footsteps.

Emily’s voice once more, an anchor in the din. “Squeeze my hand, Edmund.”

With effort, he sensed on his palm a ghost-like touch. He commanded his hand to close. Fingers squeezed fingers.

Loud with commotion, the world sharpened slowly. The fog lifted from around Emily’s face. Her eyes came into focus.

And his side—his side shouted with pain. Throbbed. His breath adopted its rhythm. Quick, short pulses. “ _Ah._ Ah, help. _Help._ ” He wanted the haze back, the painless adrenaline-buzz in his body. Not this. Not _this._

Pain and noise. A swirl of chaos. It swallowed half of the words spoken around him.

“Edmund. Ed...focus...me.”

“Emily. I can’t.” A wheeze of breath. A rush of cold air. A rush of warm blood. _God. Dear God._

“Mrs. Reid.” Unknown voice. “Need...him...doctor...you...aside.”

“No.”

“Ma’am...must...”

“...understand! I...stay with him!”

The sky moved. Rooftops shifted. Pain burst from his side. He realized—many hands had moved _him._ Up, off the street. Under the door of the station.

“Emily?” No one heard him, her name a whispered croak. Constant jostles knocked the breath from him. Worse when he was dropped onto a hard surface. A table.

Quieter here—only a handful of voices. The first: “These conditions are perfectly suitable for the dead, but Inspector, I have no chloroform here. No morphine. I am not accustomed to working on conscious persons in such a—”

Abberline. “Doctor Phillips, I do not _care_ if you are not ac _customed_ to such conditions. You will work, and you will do so _quick_ ly!”

Edmund lifted his head to find himself flanked by the two men. He looked to the wound in his side, only part of it visible. Wide and deep red. Pale flesh and fat sliced open, coated with blood. Blood that still seeped from him.

 _God. Oh, God. Oh, God._ Sour panic rose in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, then gasped, eyes flying open again, when two hands took careful hold of the sides of his face and guided his head back down to the table.

“It’s me, Edmund.”

“Emily.” Relief tempered his pain and discomfort.

She brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead.

The doctor padded the shallow cut on his abdomen, but spent little time there. He moved to the wound at his side and doused it with a cold solution. 

“ _Ugh,_ Emily, it burns. It _burns.”_

“It will burn. And it will hurt, love.” She knelt to his left, opposite his wounded side, and eased his face toward her. The doctor fell out of his peripheral vision. “Drink this.”

His eyes flickered to the amber-filled tumbler she offered him. It had appeared suddenly, as if by magic, and he blinked at it before he nodded and let her tip the glass toward his mouth. Whiskey. Inspector Abberline’s. He knew it by its oaky sweet-smoke scent. Meant to be sipped, his most valued. Aged nearly twenty years. But Edmund swallowed it in a matter of seconds. It left a burn-trail down his throat that could not match the bubbly-sting and throb of the burn in his side.

“That will help,” Emily said, stroking his hair.

“Not enough.” His breaths hastened. “If he had morphine or chloroform. The doctor, I—”

“But you do not need it, Edmund. You can—”

“But I _do_!” A clatter of metal came from his right side, and he looked toward it—and the doctor—with alarm. He turned back to Emily, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can endure the—”

“You _can_. You can. I have seen your strength, my darling, and it is _fierce_.”

He closed his eyes. Shut them tight. He did not, at that moment, share Emily’s faith. The sound of his own breath scared him—so fast and shallow. He wished for unconsciousness and considered slamming his head against the table until he achieved it.

“Edmund. Edmund.” Emily repeated his name in earnest until he met her eyes. “Keep your eyes on me. Show me your strength. I will not leave you.” She spread one hand over the center of his chest and buried the other in his hair. “Brace yourself, now.”

Pain came immediately, before he had prepared for it. Worse than the cut itself. Intense. Excruciating. Then a cacophonous storm assaulted his ears: his own screams, his own breaths, words in his wife’s voice, the doctor’s, Abberline’s. But Emily’s most often—an almost-constant sound, and the only pleasant one. 

“Edmund, here. Look here.”

He blinked at the ceiling, arching—screaming—when another stab of pain pierced his side.

“Edmund. Please, Edmund.” Emily turned his head. Tears ran down her cheeks, to the corners of her mouth.

_Christ. Death must be less painful than this._

He fumbled for her hand. She let him squeeze her fingers, hard. He saw her wince. “Stop,” he whispered. “Make him stop.”

“He’s nearly finished.” Her voice cracked. “It’s all right. You’re all right.” She kissed him. A short kiss, with dry lips.

The seconds while she kissed him—those seconds without air, ratcheted up the pace of his breaths after she pulled away. But he did not fear he would pass out. He feared he would remain awake.

A cool touch on his forehead. A wet cloth, draped across.

“One more stitch. That’s it, Edmund. That’s it. Nearly there.” The cloth lifted, replaced by Emily’s own forehead. Her breath passed as a breeze over his face. “It’s over. It’s over now.”

Pain lingered. His breaths did not return to a normal rhythm for several minutes.

Emily kissed his face. Nuzzled his neck and shoulder. He did not release her hand.

He became suddenly aware of their solitude; Abberline and the doctor had left. Only the two of them remained in the makeshift surgery.

He took a moment to gather saliva, wet his mouth and lips, before he looked at her. “You must be ashamed of me,” he whispered, quiet, still somewhat breathless.

“What?”

“You must think me weak.”

“No. No, Edmund, of course not.” She squeezed his hand.

“Nevertheless, I wish you had not witnessed any of this.”

“And I wish you were not a policeman.”

He met her eyes, temporarily stunned into silence at her unequivocal confession. “Emily, please do not ask me to—”

“I ask _noth_ ing of you. I know you would not give it up.”

“But if you could, you would have me be a—” He drew a deep breath. “A baker. Or a clerk.”

“We are talking of _wish_ es, Edmund. Not reality. They hardly matter.”

He closed his eyes. She adjusted the shards of his clothes to cover him, to hide his freshly stitched wound.

“Emily, I must do this so—”

“So you might, after this day, drive me mad with anxiety?”

“No. No, of course not.” He ignored the pain of movement to lift his arm and touch her cheek. “No. I must do this so I might make a safer world for those I love. _You,_  Emily. And our—” He swallowed, tears flooding his eyes. “Our _child_ ren. When we have them. I would have you—all of you, now and in the future—safe.”

“You were a policeman before all of that, Edmund.”

“Yes, but without such _pur_ pose.”

Emily’s face crinkled with emotion, and she leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. “At the cost of your own safety? Your own _life_?”

“If _nec_ essary, _yes_!”

Emily froze. She stared at him with shocked eyes. Her lips parted, then pressed together, then parted again. “You would—” She shook her head, as if she did not believe what she was about to say. “You would give—”

“I would give my life for you if it meant you would be safe, yes.” He spoke with resolve and certainty. He had committed to the idea even before he had married her.

She exhaled. Her shoulders dropped. She searched his eyes—steady, serious. Visibly touched and affected. She cupped his face and drew half-moon lines over his cheekbone.

“I do not wish to question you, Edmund, but it seems that if you wish to protect me, the best way to do so is to…be _here_. To be close to me.”

He nodded, unable to argue with her. “I intend to, if I can help it.” He paused. “In terms of the immediate future,” he said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I will surely be relegated to Desk Sergeant until I recover. Does that suit you?”

“Back in uniform?”

“Indeed.”

“Then I must say it will suit _you_.” She traced the ridge of his nose and smiled. A full smile. The first he had seen all day. “As much as I enjoy your plain clothes, your uniform invokes strong memories in me. When we first met on your beat. When you pursued the thief that made a grab for my purse. You called me ‘Miss.’ So politely, before you knew my name.”

“I protected you, even then.”

“And I feared for you, even then.”

He let his head roll against the table. “Emily, if you wish to raise guilt in me then—”

“I promise you, Edmund, I wish for no such thing.” She leaned over him, her hand on his chest, and kissed him. Long and deep.

Edmund allowed his eyes to drift closed. He let his jaw relax as her tongue slipped past his lips and entered his mouth. The warm, welcome heat—the pleasure of her kiss—temporarily displaced his pain. He concentrated on her as much as possible, disappointed when she pulled back and the pain reared up again.

Emily watched him with concern. “I only wish for you to have a care for your own safety. Promise me you will not be so cavalier with it.”

A knot formed in his throat, and he nodded.

Her silent thanks pooled in her eyes. She returned his nod, the issue closed. “And darling?”

“Hmm?”

“Try not to forget your cap again.”

He laughed and instantly groaned. Then he accepted her help as he carefully dressed in a loaned uniform and, with Emily at his side, went home.


	9. April 1881

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund escapes work early to spend a quiet evening with Emily and baby Mathilda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a broken record, but I can't thank you enough for reading and commenting. I really value your thoughts and feedback. Thank you so much. <3

Edmund tried to return home early, when he could. A sometimes-impossible feat, but one he had come to prioritize.

He opened the door with care. Quiet and slow. He had never moved more quietly or slowly than in recent months. His ears always listened for the still-new but more familiar sounds that trickled through the house. Emily’s whispers. Indistinct murmurs and noises.

In the foyer, he removed his coat, cap, and shoes with delicacy. Then, with silent cat-feet, he padded to the parlour and peeked around the doorframe. Emily sat in the armchair, only the top of her head visible. A fire blazed, warming the room.

A high-pitched hiccup rose above the pop-and-hiss of the fire.

Edmund grinned, his heart buoyant with love for his little hiccuping girl.

That little hiccuping girl--his and Emily’s first child--had been born in December. They had tossed about an endless list of names. Elizabeth, Jane, Charlotte, Mary. None suited. But when Emily had suddenly blurted out “Mathilda,” Edmund had stopped mid-stride, tilted his head, and repeated the name, silent at first, then aloud. The name felt natural and easy-to-form in his mouth. Aloud, it was melodic. So pleasant in his ears. And, by readily agreeing to it, he had earned himself some good will with his wife.

An English-Germanic name, it meant “mighty in battle.” A perfect name, in Edmund’s mind. He delighted at the idea of a daughter-warrior. Lively. Bold. And brave.

Edmund stepped into the room. “And how are my ladies today?” 

A smile flowered on Emily’s face as she leaned over the arm of the chair and met his eyes. Mathilda’s tiny feet bobbed over the crook of Emily’s elbow. “Quite content, I think. Now that Daddy’s home.”

Before Mathilda’s birth, he had never known Emily to be quite so happy. He had no doubt that her exuberance may had been muted had it not been for regular rest; the world had blessed them with a calm and sleepy baby, who seemed to take her cues from the sun itself.

“She is my well-rested princess-warrior,” Edmund had said one day, carrying a just-woken Mathilda to her mother.

“Let us hope more ‘princess’ than ‘warrior,’” Emily had replied, laying Mathilda at her breast to feed her. “Her father is warrior enough. Our noble protector.”

He had smiled, his chest puffed with pride despite the playful tease in Emily’s voice, and leaned down to kiss his wife. The first time he had laid eyes on mother and child, his shoulders had accepted all the weighty responsibilities of fatherhood, and, since then, he had remained eager to serve the needs of them both. Anticipate their needs, if he could.

So, when the ebb and flow of criminal tides allowed, Edmund escaped the station house and fled to the company of the two keepers of his heart.  

Emily stood as he neared the chair. Concern blanketed her face. “But, Edmund, you are home early. Is something the matter?”

“No, no. Nothing the matter,” he said, his tone light. “Only that I have been apart from you.” He offered her a sheepish smile, then reached for her hand. Her concern disappeared. He squeezed her hand, but quickly released it, aware that she may need it to tend to Mathilda. The baby herself looked up at him, and he studied her eyes. She had been born with blue eyes--like his--but they had begun to morph into a hazel color, complex and be-speckled with brown, green, grey.

He wished film could capture color. He longed to record the progression of her eyes. To track how they changed from month to month. He knew his memory could not store each stage, that so many details of her face--her eyes, her hair--would be lost to the passage of time.

In her mother’s arms, Mathilda flashed a toothless smile.

“And that I have been apart from _you_ , my darling girl.” He touched her for the first time since he’d been home, his hand curving around the crown of her head. He stroked the fine threads of her strawberry-orange hair.

Emily drew his attention back to her. “You’re not needed at work?”

“Not tonight, no,” he said, his voice quiet and low. Around Mathilda, he seemed to speak with soft near-whispers. “I am home for the evening.”

“Well, I was about to read to her and get her to sleep, but if you would like to—”

“I would.” A hurried response, his arms already extended to receive her. As soon as Emily laid her across his forearms, he pulled Mathilda close to his chest. She squirmed, but settled when he propped her against his shoulder and rubbed her back. She stayed still, content to be held, like a warm, gurgly, cherished sack of potatoes.

Emily practically swooned. “I’ll make us some tea,” she said, squeezing his arm before puttering toward the kitchen.

With Emily gone, Edmund wandered to the bookshelf to browse their modest--but growing--collection of children’s books. He had started the collection before Mathilda's birth, buying the first few himself. Emily’s parents had given them dozens more from their personal library. Friends had supplemented the collection. Even Inspector Abberline gave them a book, along with hand-me-down clothes; he was raising two daughters of his own. A thoughtful gift, although Edmund would have preferred a raise and promotion.

He reached for a book gifted to them by Emily’s parents. Mathilda’s little hands flopped and bounced against his shoulder as he carried her to the chair, sat down with her, and opened the book. He balanced the book on the arm of the chair, so he could keep both of his hands--most of the time--on Mathilda.

“Now, my sweet girl,” he whispered. He paused to inhale the clean scent of their baby, alive for barely a blink of an eye upon this earth. His new, precious girl. “I must tell you this book is special. It is your mother’s favorite. So you mustn’t”--he kissed her head--“show any signs of dislike. Are we understood?”

Mathilda squealed happily.

“Yes. Exactly. Do that and your mother will be delighted.” He smoothed her hair again, although it did not need it. “Shall we begin?”

He turned toward the book. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank,” he read, then craned his neck to look at her. “It is too early yet, but perhaps one day you might have a sister. Would you like that?”

Mathilda responded with a noise that Edmund interpreted as total approval. He continued to read, absently patting Mathilda’s back.

After a time, Emily returned. “I am truly sorry to interrupt.” She set a cup of tea on the table beside the armchair.

Edmund turned the book upside-down on his thigh and reached for the tea.

“How does she like it?” Emily asked.

Edmund swallowed a sip of tea and replied, “As much as any other, I think.”

Emily nodded, crestfallen.

“ _But_ —” he added. “Considering she seems to _love_ her books”--he smiled, breathing with hope--“I’d say she likes it quite a lot.” Holding Mathilda against him with one hand, he reached for Emily with the other. He grasped her hand and tugged her closer until she perched on the arm of the chair.

Emily draped her arm across his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “I was so worried, Edmund, that we were not destined for children.”

The possibility had entered his mind more than once, but he had tried to dismiss it each time. He knew that children did not always come quickly. It could take years for some, so he had been told. Edmund had secretly consulted a doctor, but learned nothing particularly useful, so he had lain awake nights, wondering whether he was incapable of giving his wife the one happiness in the world she wanted for herself.

Emily had never blamed him. She had never even  _hinted_ at the possibility that the problem lay with him. But, eight months into their marriage, Edmund had noticed her deepening sadness. He had felt her desperation during their coupling. He had heard her cry when she would bleed from between her legs.

When she had sought his comfort, he had always held her. Always kissed her. Always reassured her that she would become a mother. An incredible, _wond_ erful mother.

But it had taken over a year--a year and a month since their wedding--to conceive a child. Edmund had not learnt the news until after he had recovered from his knife wound. _That_ event, and the words Emily had spoken to him then, had taken on new meanings after he had learned of Emily’s pregnancy. “ _Have a care for your own safety,_ ” she’d said. He could not imagine the fear she had felt that day, when his life had nearly ended and a new one had just begun to grow inside her.

Edmund finally nodded in response. “I know,” he whispered, as Mathilda’s little body relaxed with the heaviness of sleep. “I still can’t believe you waited so long to tell me.”

Emily tilted her head, her eyes on her daughter. “After how difficult it had been to make her, I feared it would be equally hard to keep her.” She looked at him, her fingers playing in his hair at the back of his head. “But I could barely keep the news to myself once I felt her move. You remember how she moved?”

Edmund nodded, his throat too constricted to speak. He carefully shifted Mathilda off his shoulder to cradle her in his arms so they could see her face. Her miniature eyelashes. The pink flush of her eyelids and forehead. Her eyebrows barely visible, such a faint orange; the shade reminded him of the petals of a daylily.

From the hour of her birth, Emily insisted that Mathilda resembled him. But he had seen himself only in the color of her eyes in her first few weeks. He was certainly not so beautiful.

Emily stood. “I can take her to bed.”  

“No, she can...sleep here a while.” He lifted the book from his lap and held it toward her. “Will you read for us?”

Emily smiled as she accepted the book. “I suppose,” she said, then pulled a chair across the room to sit beside them, all of them facing the fire.

With frequent looks at their little girl, Edmund sat with his legs stretched out before him, and finished his tea to the sound of his sweet Emily’s voice.


	10. March 1882

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his birthday, Edmund receives a gift that will later become more conspicuous than he himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued and heartfelt thanks to my readers and especially those who comment. Your feedback lifts me up and brightens my day. :)

As their last party guest closed the front door, Edmund collapsed onto the sofa. Emily stood in the parlour doorway, her mouth curved with a self-satisfied grin.

“Well, now, birthday-boy,” she teased, approaching with a slow, easy stride. “That was not so _aw_ ful.”

“Oh, it was. Insufferable in the extreme,” he replied, his smile counter to his words. “You are a terrible wife. Truly, _tru_ ly horrid.” He reached his hand toward her as she neared, impatient for her to join him.

She had spent most of the party away from him. Ever the mindful host, she had looked after all of their guests, who had surprised him with hoots and cheers when he had returned from the milk-seller. An errand of critical importance, Emily had insisted, but one he had later recognized as a ploy to remove him from the house.

A hot blush had bloomed on his face when Emily had kissed him in plain view of their visitors.

“I believe I said ‘no parties,’” he had whispered.

“You absolutely did.”

“But I see you did not heed this request.”

“I absolutely did not.” With a smirk and a hand on the small of his back, she had pushed him toward his well-wishers. “Now go and say hello.” Since then, they had exchanged glances and smiles, but he had not been within arm’s reach of her.

So, for the first time all evening, Emily sat beside him, accepting his hand and intertwining their fingers. “Yes, I specifically asked my cousin to initiate a card game at which I know you are par _tic_ ularly unskilled.” She drowned each work with sarcasm. “I hoped, of course, to torture you.

He breathed a chuckle, then shifted in his seat to wrap her in his arms. His lips brushed her cheek. “You are the most wonderfully disobedient wife.”

“How relieved I am that you think so.”

He loosened his hold and pulled back to look at her. “Oh?”

Her smile, devious and wide, inflamed his curiosity. “I have yet one more defiant act to perform.” Before he could enquire further, she ducked out of his embrace and patted his chest. “You stay there.”

She left the room and returned with a rounded box—a conical frustum, a geometrist would call it. Light brown, with a ribbon tied around it.  

He arched an eyebrow at the box, then at her, and sighed with heavy exasperation. “Emily. You did _not_ need to buy—”

“ _No_! Edmund, no. I won’t hear it.” She raised her palm to him, as if to stop further protests. “I do not need your permission to buy you a birthday present. Besides, you did not refuse Mathilda’s.” She placed the box on his lap. “Nor did you admonish her for it.”

That morning from her mother’s arms, Mathilda had waved a crumpled piece of paper at him, a drawing of wobbly shapes and scribbles. She had giggled—the sound itself a priceless, beautiful gift—and he had thanked her very much for her thoughtfulness and kissed her smooth forehead.

“Yes, well,” Edmund said, as Emily reclaimed her seat beside him. “Mathilda _made_ her present.” He pointed at the box. “Did you make this?”

She grinned. “Yes, of course.”

He barked a laugh at her blatant lie. “You did not.”

“ _You_ ”—she poked his chest—“do not know what it is and cannot _poss_ ibly say whether I made it or not!”

“I _do_ know what it is. Any gentleman would know a box like this, even if he did not own one himself.”

“Oh, you’re a gentleman now, are you?”

Pursing his lips with a mock-scowl, he turned his attention to the box. He raised the lid, revealing the box’s upside-down contents: a hat, its interior bowl lined with white satin. Taking a moment to study and admire it, he noted its night-black color, its perfect shape. His hand glided over the smooth, fuzzy felt. He inspected it further and, inside, found the label bearing the name of its makers.

“Ah. James Lock & Co. That’s you, is it?” he teased.

“I fear I toil away without thanks or credit,” she said, elongating her vowels with playful exaggeration. A line delivered like a veteran of the stage. “I have not yet earned top billing.”

“That is a shame, for this a fine hat.” He leaned toward her and kissed her, even as she smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she warned. “It may make you look ridiculous.”

For the first time, he tipped the bowler onto his head and spread his arms, inviting her evaluation. “Well?”

Her gaze traveled from his hat to his face, her smile spreading all the while. “Yes, quite ridiculous,” she said, her voice light with laughter. She bit her bottom lip as she scooted closer to him. Her knuckles trailed along his jawline, from chin to ear. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. Edmund felt his chest tighten when her hand curved around his neck and pulled him toward her. “Not at all handsome,” she whispered, then kissed him, her mouth open, warm, and eager. As her tongue darted into his mouth, she slid her hand down his chest, his stomach, and touched him through his trousers. He twitched, hummed in the back of his throat. He raised his hips, pushing himself into her palm.

But before she could massage him to a full erection, a knock at the door froze them both.

“Ignore it,” Emily whispered and guided him into another kiss.

But Inspector Abberline—not half-hour ago a guest in their house—nearly shouted down their door. “Edmund! Edmund Reid! Open up!”

“Edmund, please,” Emily begged, her hands flying from his shoulders and neck to his hair and face, knocking the hat from his head. She wrapped one arm around his waist and pressed a firm, flat hand to his back, urging him toward her. “ _Please_.”

Edmund bowed his head, his chest aching, and reluctantly pulled away from her. He could not even bare to offer her an apologetic glance as he strode to the front door.

Gathering his composure, he swung open the door and, at the risk of sounding impolite, asked, “Did you forget something, Inspector?”

“I did not, I am afraid. There has been an explosion on Commercial Street. Get—”

“Inspector?”

Edmund’s spine audibly cracked when he whipped around to see Emily standing in the hall behind him.

“Mrs. Reid,” said Abberline, raising his hat.

“I see you have come to rob me of my husband.”

Edmund closed his eyes and swallowed. He wished he could tell her that he wanted this interruption as much as she did, that he wanted to slam the door in the Inspector’s face and take her to their bed.

Abberline lifted his chin. “ _I_ do not rob you of your husband, Mrs. Reid, no. Perpetrators of an ex _plo_ sion do.”

Edmund doubted that Emily would care for the distinction. One look at her face confirmed that he was right. She pressed her lips together into a straight, fine line and nodded, curt and stiff. Then she wordlessly retreated back into the parlour.

Edmund stared at the empty space she had just occupied, his heart heavy with guilt, but his brain alive with curiosity at the prospect of a yet-unsolved, late-night explosion.

“Get your coat, Sergeant,” Abberline demanded. “You are with me.”

Compassion for his wife made him turn his eyes to Abberline and plead for his understanding. “Yes, sir, only...one moment, if you would allow.”

Surprisingly, Abberline nodded, and before he could change his mind, Edmund dashed into the parlour.

Emily stood in front of the fire, her arms folded across her chest. He crossed the room in three strides to join her. “Emily…”

She spun to face him. Her eyes narrowed with silent frustration.

Edmund did his best to maintain a calm expression. “I am sorry, Emily.”

Her arms and shoulders tensed. Her hands closed into fists. “It is your _birth_ day, Edmund,” she whispered with a strained voice.

“And it was _won_ derful, Emily. Because of _you,_ ” he said, reaching out to grip her shoulders. “Thank you.”

She frowned, averting her face from him. “I hoped to have some time alone with you.”

“I know. And we may yet have that time, but, for now, I must go.” He rushed to speak, hoping to prevent her from interrupting him. “I will take with me all the happy memories of this night, and will return to make more with you as soon as I can.” He pulled her to him and kissed her, desperately wanting her to know—to _feel—_ that he looked forward to being with her. “And I will thank you properly.” His kisses formed a curve across her neck. “And reward you for your endless patience.”

His words and kisses coaxed a smile from her. He mirrored her, giving her a smile of his own before heading for the front door.

Her voice stopped him. “Edmund, wait!”

Two steps from the hall, he turned his head toward her. Quiet laughter spilled from him when she rushed to him and placed his new bowler hat on his head.

“If you really endeavor to thank me,” she said, her hands squeezing his triceps, “the next time I see you, you will wear that hat and nothing else.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her boldness. His smile stretched so full and wide it made his cheeks ache. “Wait for me in bed,” he whispered, and cupped her face with both hands and kissed her. Hard. Long enough to make both of them breathless. Then he hurried off to join the Inspector, already looking forward to returning home.


	11. December 1883

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an ill Mathilda pushes Edmund to his wit's end, he escapes the house in search of a way to calm her, despite Emily's attempts to make him stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet more thanks to everyone who continues to read, and especially comment on, this story. You all mean so much to me and your feedback is so, so wonderful. Thank you.

Edmund rushed down the stairs, Emily close behind. He did not turn to face her until he reached the front door. “I can’t do this, Emily. I can’t.”

“Yet you expect it of _me_?” she shouted. Upstairs, Mathilda screamed with all the power of her little lungs.

He had no answer to her question, only a further attempt to explain himself. “I cannot listen to her cry like that. I cannot do it. I’m sorry.” With his eyes fixed on the floor, he wrenched his arms into his coat. His head pounded.

When he turned for the door, Emily seized him by the arm, preventing his exit. “So you will leave me to listen? To watch her, while you escape? Can you not _try_ to comfort her?”

“I _have_ tried, Emily! I have!” He pushed his words past clenched teeth and jerked his arm free. “I’ve tried to _play_ with her. Tell her stories. Hold her. You _saw_ it. And none of it has worked.” He reached for the door and opened it.

“Edmund, don’t! Do _not_ leave me here with our sick child!” Emily pleaded, her voice harsh with desperation and frustration.

Mathilda’s shrill cries continued to fill the house.

Sympathy for his wife and daughter—and uncomfortable guilt—ballooned inside him. He drew small, shallow breaths and met Emily’s eyes. She stared at him as if he had struck her, and he bowed his head. Leaving the door open, he turned toward her. “Emily,” he said, slow and calm. “I am no _use_ to you here, nor to her. I love you, and I love Mathilda. And I only wish to make myself useful to you both.” He took her hand and held it between both of his. “I will return soon, I promise.”

“Edmund, please. It is _use_ ful for you to remain _here_ and—”

He shook his head, then scowled at the top of the stairs as Mathilda erupted with a fresh wave of stark, loud wails.

“You _must_ allow me to try and help,” he insisted, releasing her hand. Once more, he moved to leave. “I need time, Emily. I need to think, and I cannot think here.”

Before Emily could protest further, he turned his back on her and exited the house. As soon as the door closed, his shoulders fell with relief. The din of the street seemed quiet in comparison to the noise he just left. He sighed heavily and started to walk, no specific destination in mind.

He passed the usual vendors and storefronts, his mind busy in search of a solution. Fifteen minutes elapsed before one dawned on him as he stood before a shelf in a toy shop, a recent memory a whisper of optimism in his mind.

By the time he paid the shopkeeper and arrived back home, newly purchased package in hand, he had been absent for thirty-five minutes—an eternity for Emily, most likely.

Inside the house, he called out for Emily. He had to yell to compete with Mathilda’s cries and, even then, he suspected his voice stood little chance of rising above her deafening screeches.

“Emily! Emily!”

He heard no response. For one terrible moment, he wondered if she had left. But no, no; she would not abandon their daughter, he knew. Despite his certainty, his heart still raced as he climbed the stairs, two at a time, and hurried into Mathilda’s room.

His eyes instantly found Emily, who knelt on the floor, slumped beside Mathilda’s bed. Their ill, unhappy daughter clutched her blankets and screamed.

He stepped forward and touched his wife’s shoulder. She started and twisted to look at him with a fierce expression, her jaw set and her eyes narrowed.

“Emily, please,” he pleaded. “Don’t be upset.”

She leapt to her feet and advanced on him. He backpedaled and raised his empty hand as if to stop her. “Don’t be up _set_? You _left_ me here, Edmund!”

“Yes, but—”

“You _left_ me here, a _lone_ , to care for our sick child! _Alone_ , Edmund!”

“I know, but—”

“And she is _no_ better now than when you—”

“Emily, _please!_ Look!” He frantically opened the small box and thrust it towards her.

She fell silent as she peered at his find—at the ceramic red-haired girl on her carousel horse. “What is it?”

“A music box.” He extracted it from the packaging and handed it to her. “Do you remember when we all visited your sister, how she played the piano after dinner?”

Emily nodded. Her face softened.

“And do you recall how Mathilda stared and listened? Perfectly quiet. She did not stir. Did not make a sound.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and Edmund reached for her hand. She swallowed thickly and said, “And you think this will produce a similar effect.”

He nodded and took back the music box. “That is my hope, yes.”

They both turned wearily toward their wailing daughter. Emily sat on the bed at Mathilda’s feet, while Edmund wound the mechanics of the box. He knelt beside the bed and held the music box in front of Mathilda’s red, tear-wet face.

Soft, delicate notes floated from the music box. Mathilda continued to cry, but Edmund waited. The fear of failure threatened to banish the hope he had carried into the house, and he refused to look at Emily and see his fear mirrored in her face.

His heart clenched when Emily set a tentative hand on his arm. “Edmund, I truly am thankful you tried, but—”

He shook off her hand and rewound the music box, desperation hot and prickly in his chest.

The music started over, and Edmund held his breath when Mathilda’s shiny eyes latched onto the box and she—suddenly, miraculously—fell silent. She stared, utterly captivated—by the sound or the slow movement of the horse and its rider, he did not know. He did not care. He cared only that Mathilda had finally, _finally_ , quieted, and he released the breath he had been holding.

When Mathilda reached for the music box, he let her touch it, but kept hold of it. “Mathilda,” he whispered. “This is for you. And we can play this for you whenever you feel sick, or sad, or scared. Whenever you want.”

Mathilda’s eyes met his, but promptly returned to the music box.

“How does that sound?” Edmund asked.

She folded her arms and tucked her little fists under her chin. “Good.”

“Good,” he echoed, a smile of intense relief spreading across his face. Emily rubbed his shoulder, and he set the music box on Mathilda’s small bedside table. With his handkerchief, he gently wiped Mathilda’s face dry. “Why don’t you close your eyes”—he kissed her fever-warm forehead—“and listen, okay?”

“What about Mama?”

He and Emily exchanged tender smiles. “She needs to rest now. Like you.”

“Here?” Mathilda’s eyes turned toward her mother.

Emily’s smile widened as she lay beside Mathilda. “Of course, my darling.”

Edmund watched his wife curl her arm around their girl and pull her close. His chest compressed with love for them both, and he reached out to cover Emily’s hand, to lightly stroke the skin of her wrist.

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“You stay, too?” Mathilda stretched out her little arm, all her fingers spread.

He smiled softly, the corners of his eyes burning with grateful tears. Then he lay down with his wife and child, huddling with them under the blankets, and, keeping hold of Emily’s hand, watched his two ladies fall asleep.


	12. October 1884

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Emily is away with Mathilda visiting her family, H Division celebrates Edmund's promotion at the Bear, where Edmund's strength is unexpectedly tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless 'thank you's to all of you who continue to follow this story. A special shout-out to everyone who takes the time to comment and share your thoughts, even if they are brief! Hearing from you truly makes my day! Love to all of you! ♥
> 
> Also, I'm happy to welcome Bennet Drake, finally, to the story! Hurrah!

“Gentlemen! Let us raise a toast to our newest—”

“And youngest!”

Inspector Abberline—‘ _Fred_ ,’ as he now insisted that Edmund call him—nodded and pointed from where he stood at the end of the bar. “ _And,_ at thirty-one years of age, the youngest of any man in H Division ever to earn his pips.”

Edmund watched as the heads around him bobbed with appreciation. At the end of the day shift, the Inspector—Fred, Fred, _Fred_ —had ordered the station house to the Bear.

“Not _you_ , Boyle!” Fred had shouted to the Desk Sergeant. “We cannot leave the station completely unmanned. You stay, son.”

The rest of the men had filtered into the Bear and crowded around the bar. Edmund had chosen a stool near the center. He had seen Fred announce the promotion of men before him, and he had hoped to make it difficult for Fred to haul him out of his seat and put him on display. To his relief, Fred had decided not to wade into the sea of policeman that surrounded him, and Edmund remained seated and unmolested.

From his boozy pulpit, Fred raised his glass. “A finer officer you will not find in the whole of this Metropolitan Police force. I speak, of course, of our very own Detective In _spect_ or Edmund Reid.”

When the bar erupted with cheers and all heads turned in his direction, Edmund hoisted his own pint, nodded his thanks, and drank. Over the next hour, his amber ale disappeared down his throat—and was quickly replenished—as he tolerated dozens of bone-jarring back-slaps, toasts to his leadership, and poorly-veiled attempts to procure his favor.

The constant rotation continued when another officer filled the recently vacated seat beside him. Edmund did not need to manufacture a smile when he laid eyes on the officer’s face. “Bennet!” Relief and delight saturated his voice. “I looked earlier, but I could not find you. I worried you stayed behind.”

Bennet shook his head. “Wouldn’t miss it. It is a promotion well-deserved, if I may say so, Inspector.”

“Thank you. But I am afraid Inspector Abberline and these men here”—Edmund gestured to the crowd around them—“make too much of it.”

“If you don’t mind me sayin’, sir—”

Edmund blinked and squinted at the deference with which Bennet uttered the word ‘ _sir._ ’

“—they make of it a fine celebration for a fine accomplishment. One that has not, I would bet, if I were a bettin’ man, come without some measure of sacrifice.”

“Some sacrifice, yes, but borne by Mrs. Reid, more than myself.”

“Mrs. Reid is well, I hope?” Bennet asked, pausing for a sip of his stout. “I confess myself surprised she did not care to join in the merriment.”

“Oh, yes, she is very well. But she is away. Visiting her sister. I am alone for another week.” Edmund followed Bennet’s example and tipped his ale to his mouth, while his mind tipped toward Emily.

She and Mathilda had left one week past. An unfortunate and inconvenient time; it had overlapped with his first week as Inspector and, so, he could not join them. When they had discussed the visit, he had intended to accompany them— _wanted_ to. He liked Elizabeth, and her new husband. Edmund had harbored a hope that Elizabeth and Tom would occupy Mathilda for an hour or two, so that he and Emily could be alone. Alone—and awake—for the first time in _months._

“Ah.” Bennet rubbed his thumb through the beads of condensation on his glass. “Forgive me, sir, if it was an impertinent enquiry. I meant no—”

“Oh, Bennet, please. I know I am your superior now, but I’ll have no such talk of impertinence or”—he searched for the proper word—“or insubordination. We’re friends, and it is not impertinent for friends to ask after each other’s family.”

“‘Course, sir.” Bennet hardly seemed convinced. He stumbled over the words that followed. “Well, then, sir. Is, uh...Mathilda, sir? Is she well also?”

Edmund drained the last of his ale. “She is. Emily wrote to me of their visit so far, and apparently, Mathilda has taken to her Aunt Elizabeth’s dog, and it to her.”

“How could any creature not? She is a sweet girl.”

A closed-mouth smile pulled at Edmund’s lips, but it faded as fast as it had appeared. He cast his eyes toward the shiny surface of the bar, a dull ache in his chest. He remembered how, before she and her mother had left for their train, she had turned in the doorway and waved at him. With a short sigh, he raised his eyes to Bennet. “She refers to you now as ‘Uncle Ben.’ She hopes to see you when she returns. So she said.”

“Does she, now?” Bennet beamed a smile wider than Edmund had ever seen. “Uncle Ben. Well…”

“Sirs? Another drink?” A pretty barmaid leaned toward them and smiled. She twisted a thick, shiny curl around her finger.

Edmund nodded. He slid several coins across the bar. Bennet nodded his silent thanks and emptied the rest of his pint.

The barmaid hurried to return with their full, foamy-headed pints. “Here you are, then.” She spoke only to Edmund.

“Thank you.” He pushed the dark stout toward Bennet and wrapped his hand around his pale ale.

“Julia,” the barmaid said, her blush-kissed cheeks full with her smile. She stretched herself over the bar, braced on her elbows, to cover his hand with hers.

He inhaled at the contact, at the contrast on either side of his hand—cool glass on one side, warm skin on the other. He blinked at the barmaid—Julia—and chanced a quick look at Bennet, who had turned away from him and toward another officer.

The barmaid caressed his hand, and his eyes snapped back to her. She still smiled, broader now. She must have been ten years his junior. But she stared at him with wide charcoal eyes and licked her bottom lip in a way that made him want to taste it for himself.

“It’s my pleasure,” she whispered, husky and low.

Suddenly, his collar seemed to choke him. Heat rushed down his neck, over his chest, across his back. He swallowed a mouthful of cool ale before he propelled himself off his stool and toward the door. The crisp outside air breezed over his face—an instant relief. He closed his eyes and concentrated on it, leaning against the wall of the Bear.

He could not recall the last time he had experienced such fevered exhilaration. Save routine—and chaste—hello-and-goodbye kisses, Emily had not touched him in weeks _._ She had certainly not, in recent memory, looked at him with such electric, wanton desire.

He shook his head, trying to clear it.

Emily. Emily was familiar. Warm. She loved him. He loved her. He loved her and the life—their home, their Mathilda, the security of their everyday—they had created together. He could not blame her for their lack of recent intimacy; they had _both_ been busy. Overworked. Exhausted.

Nearby, the door opened, but he paid it little mind until a voice broke into his thoughts.

“You are _Inspector_ Reid now, I hear. Congratulations.”

Edmund raised his head and found Julia, the barmaid, to his immediate left. He met her smoke-grey eyes and replied, “Oh. Thank you.”

She smiled and stepped in front of him, so close that Edmund tried to move backward, but only succeeded in pressing himself to the wall. When she spoke, her breath passed over the skin of his neck. “My mother said she could still remember when you wore a uniform. Instead of these,” she said, her voice airy. Flirtatious.

He tensed when she curled her hands around his lapels. But, despite the rational recoil of his brain, fresh excitement rushed through his body. He closed his eyes and tried to dismiss the contact as if it had never happened. “Well,” he said. “That was many years past, now.”

“It could not be _so_ many years,” she cooed, standing on her tip-toes and gripping his shoulders. He could smell her—a combination of soap and alcohol. Lavender soap. He averted his eyes and willed himself not to stare at her as she added, “You are still so _hand_ some. Young. And _strong_ , Inspector Reid.”

Her hands trailed over his chest and fell to his hips. Her face hovered close to his. He stared at her full, parted lips. Watched her let her hair down. His cock twitched and hardened when she squeezed his hips. He spread his hands flat on the wall, afraid he would be tempted to reach for her instead. This young, assertive woman that _wanted_ him. Emily swooped into his mind, and suddenly he hated how quickly this young woman stole his breath from him. “You...you flatter me, Miss, but—”

“Julia.”

“ _Miss,"_ he insisted. Summoning all his self-restraint and control, he edged away from her, side-stepping toward the door. “But I’m afraid I must—”

“Inspector, wait.” She latched onto his coat.

Against his better judgment, he let her take his hand and pull him toward her.

The next few seconds blurred. Edmund watched her close her eyes. Her face—her open mouth—drew closer. Her hand curved around the back of his neck. As soon as realization struck him, he turned his head. Her kiss landed on the corner of his mouth.

With a sharp breath, he pushed her away and stumbled backwards.

“But Inspector. I overheard you. You sounded...lonely?” She voiced it like a question, uncertain, but only somewhat. “You said you were alone.”

“Yes, because my wife is away. I miss my _wife_.” As he backpedaled toward the door, he repeated the word for both their benefit. “My _wife._ ”

She followed him, undeterred. “Then perhaps,” she said, reaching for him. “I can offer you some solace.”

Fury—at her, at himself—bloomed like a dense cloud of toxic algae in his chest. He seized her wrist. “Girl, you will keep your hands off me.” He released her with a shove.

“Inspector—”

“And if you say a _noth_ er _word,_  I will not hesitate to make your life difficult. Now, return to the bar. Do not _look_ at me. Do not _speak_ to me. Am I understood?”

She drew a deep breath, but nodded, then stormed past him and reentered the Bear.

He collapsed against the wall and breathed hard, his face turned toward the sky. Emily’s face flashed in his mind. Mathilda’s, too. His ladies. His family. Hours away. Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand to his chest in an attempt to ease the sharp remorse that stabbed at his breastbone.

He started when Bennet burst out of the Bear. “Inspector. The men, they’re askin’ for you. Will you not come back inside?”

“No, I think not.” He offered Bennet a weak smile. “It’s time I went home.”

“You certain, sir?”

Edmund nodded and pushed away from the wall.

“I can join you, sir, if you’d rather not—that is to say, if you’d like some company.”

Edmund shook his head. “No, no. That’s hardly necessary. Stay. Enjoy yourself.”

He left Bennet at the door and, when he arrived home, he found several windows lit. A shadow moved within the bedroom.

His heart raced as he unlocked the door and ran upstairs. When he stopped in the bedroom doorway, his breath stalled in his throat.

Emily stood beside the closet, beside her open case—and beautiful with her hair down, with her robe loose enough to reveal her nakedness underneath. The fire cast a dim, warm light on her face as she turned to him and smiled.

He blinked and wondered if he had somehow conjured her.

“Edmund!”

“Emily. Oh, my God. You’re here.” He rushed forward and threw his arms around her.

He ached, hurt—deep in his chest—as he pressed his face to the side of her head and inhaled the scent of her. One he knew, one he loved for its sweetness, its comfort and warmth. “You’re home early.”

Easing out of his embrace, she responded, “We are.” She flattened his lapels, and he breathed easier under her touch. He hoped she would stay close. “Elizabeth fell ill, and I did not want Mathilda to catch her flu.”

“Where is she?”

“Mathilda?”

He nodded.

“Asleep. In her room.”

“Good.” He scanned her face, swallowed, and drew a series of short, uneven breaths.

Emily slid her hands down his arms. “Edmund, what is the matter?”

He nearly told her what happened, but closed his mouth. He saw no need to worry her or raise any unnecessary suspicions. So he murmured, “It was a hard week.”

“Ah, yes, your first week as Inspector. Tell me about it.” She took both of his hands and walked backwards with him, toward their bed. Her happy smile, the sway of her body, the way her robe shifted and exposed more skin—all coupled with the events at the Bear and months of unfulfilled, pent-up desire made him want her. He barely heard her when she said, “And then I can tell you about the rest of the visit.”

“Later.” His hands slipped from hers and found her hips. He pulled her to him and, with his lips at her ear, whispered, “I want you, Emily. Now.”

“Really?”

“Yes. God, Emily. I need you.”

A tide of relief crashed over him when she responded without further hesitation. Her hands fumbled with his clothes as she kissed him. He pushed her robe off her shoulders and fell with her onto the bed. Their hands and mouths searched for all the places that pleased each other most. Armed with years of private, intimate information, he made love to her, teased her, pulled quiet moans and harsh breaths from her throat. With his mouth, he pushed her to a dizzy climax before he positioned himself above her and, with a slow, deep thrust, slid inside her.

“Edmund,” she whispered, one hand in his hair, the other low on his back. “I imagined you like this. When I was away, I—” With a moan, she lifted her hips to meet him. “I pleasured myself, but—” She cupped his jaw and turned his face toward her. “I wanted you.” A small, broken sound escaped her as she captured his mouth for a kiss. “I’ve wanted you so much.”

His rhythm faltered as he searched her eyes, transfixed. She stared back at him with love, yes, but more—with passion and need that seemed to wrap around his heart, his entire body, and _squeeze._ His breath left him as he drove himself deep within her and came with hard, tense shudders.

She held him, stroked his back in lazy, loopy patterns until he climbed off her and settled beside her. He lay on his side, braced on his elbow, and studied her face—how a curl of hair stuck to her temple, how her lips had swollen, how an uneven blush colored her cheeks.

When she turned her head and met his eyes, she smiled. “You have not done _that_ in some time.”

He squinted at her, his eyebrows drawn in with confusion. “I know we do not—perhaps we don’t, as often as we once did, but—”

“No, not—” She cast her eyes down for a moment. “Not that. I meant you have not been quite so direct. So clear in your desire. Not in recent months.”

He inhaled slowly and nodded. “Ah. Well.” He hesitated, but decided to be honest, with as gentle a tone as possible. “Neither have you.” Emily’s eyes widened, and he hurried to elaborate. “I do not mean to start a—I only mean that I cannot always be the one to initiate—” He expelled a puff of air, then took her hand. “I cannot describe the—how I feel when you, when you approach me, and press close to me, and are clear in _your_ desire.”

“As I was tonight?” She leaned toward him, her face so close he could count her eyelashes.

His breath left him in a shaky exhale. “Yes,” he whispered.

“You do not have to describe that feeling. I know it. I feel it when you are close to me. When you care not for how you look or sound, and you tell me—you let me see how much you need me. To see that desire so alive in your eyes…” She traced his eyebrow with her middle finger. “You stoke a flame within me that always burns for you. My silly, _stup_ id love.”

A breathy, hiccup-laugh escaped him.

“You only need to come to me.”

He turned onto his back and pulled her with him, his arms folded around her. When she laid her head on his shoulder, he kissed her forehead, then pressed his cheek there. “I will. It's only that lately I had been—with Mathilda now so active, you seemed exhausted. There were times I came home and I wanted—you were already asleep, but I wanted to wake you. Kiss you. Be with you.”

Emily’s hand spread wide over the left side of his chest. “I’ve wanted the same. When I would wake and hear you come to bed. But you would fall asleep so quickly. I feared that if I stood in the way of your sleep or, or woke you...Edmund, I feared your rejection.”

“Re _ject_ ion?” A choked sound of disbelief skittered up his throat. “No, Emily, I could no more reject _you_ than”—he paused to find an adequate comparison and could not settle on one. “I could not. You have to know that.” He covered her hand that still rested on his chest. “So, perhaps you will come to me, from time to time?”

“Or perhaps I will simply travel without you more often, if this is how I am welcomed home.” When she pushed herself up onto her arms, a playful smile danced across her face.

He knew that she teased him, but he could not help but reply in seriousness, “I’d rather you not.” With a tilt of his head, he brushed her hair away from her face. “I missed you.”

Her smile turned tender. “I missed _you_.”

He could not recall when he fell asleep, but it seemed as if he had been asleep for mere _minutes_ when the sun struck his eyes and a shrill, loud voice pierced his ears.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

When Mathilda threw her little body on top of him, Edmund trapped her in his arms. Emily turned in bed and tried to kiss Mathilda’s head as she squirmed.

“Mummy! Daddy! I want a puppy! Can we buy one? Can we?”

Over the top of Mathilda’s fire-orange curls, he saw Emily flash him a smile. For a very brief moment, he almost granted Mathilda’s wish, but instead told her, “I would love to, darling, but you must ask your mother.”

He ducked low and released a full-throated laugh as a pillow sailed at his head.


	13. July 1885

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria Park. A row boat. Good intentions gone slightly awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless 'thank you's to all of you who continue to follow this story. A special shout-out to everyone who takes the time to comment and share your thoughts, even if they are brief! Hearing from you truly makes my day! Love to all of you! After a short break to write [Marry Our Fortunes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411686/chapters/43608035), it's been nice to return to this and these two sweet, sweet babies. ♥

The sun shone and flickered off the surface of the pond--Victoria Park’s west lake. The brilliant reflections were broken only by the shadows of row boats that floated across the water.

Edmund squeezed Emily’s hand. Mathilda skipped ahead.

They had all started the day with a plentiful Saturday breakfast, cozied in the kitchen. Informal and relaxed, all of them still in their nightclothes. When Emily had kissed him, he had licked the sugar-glaze of homemade Chelsea buns from her lips. Then they had both touched and teased one another as they’d changed--Edmund, into a blue and charcoal summer suit, and Emily, into a cream and lavender dress.

He had carried Mathilda in his arms as they’d left the house and, bathed in hot, early-afternoon sunshine, had headed for the park. Emily’s idea, and--he had noted aloud to her--a fine one.

Gravel crunched under his shoes as he walked with Emily at a lazy pace. His breaths flowed with ease, peace and contentment opening his chest for lungfuls of air. The corners of his mouth twitched with a soft, momentary smile.

Mathilda stopped in the shade of a tree and waited for them. As they neared, she pointed toward the pond. “Mummy! Daddy! Look! Boats!”

Edmund grinned. “Yes, I see!”

His girl jumped up and down on light, lively feet, tugging at his sleeve. “Daddy, can we take a boat? Can we? Please?”

His smile broadened as he crouched down and took Mathilda’s little hands in his to still her. She stared at him with happy anticipation. Pure, innocent excitement. As he scanned her face--her bright cheeks and unrestrained smile, showcasing a mouthful of tiny, baby teeth--he could think of naught but adding to her joy. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Go and choose a special boat for us.”

He watched as Mathilda ran for the dock, then stood up. When he turned his head, he was met with Emily’s hard, fixed glare. He stepped backwards, surprised. “What?” he asked, puzzled.

In part to distance himself from Emily and, in another part, to catch up to his daughter, he hurried toward the dock. Emily kept pace with him and hissed his name as they neared the rental booth.

“Edmund! Edmund, stop!”

Before she could object, he paid for an hour’s time on a rowboat, then rounded on her. “ _What?_ ”

Half-way down the dock, Mathilda called to them. “Let’s take this one!”

“We should _not_ take her on a boat, Edmund.”

“Why?” he asked, not interested in the answer. He sidestepped Emily and headed for his girl.

“Edmund, this is _not_ a _good_ \--”

“Look at how _happy_ she is, Emily. She’s practically _burst_ ing with excite--”

Emily wrapped a hand around his elbow and pulled him to a stop, only a short distance from Mathilda. She lowered her voice and spoke with a fury. “Just because it makes her _happy_ does not mean it is _good_ for her!”

With a scowl, he shook her hand off his arm. “Oh, this is _harm_ less, Emily.” Mathilda climbed into the rowboat while Edmund untied the small vessel from its moorings.

Behind him, he heard Emily insist, “It is _not_ harmless. It is _dang_ erous!”

He scoffed. “It is _not_ dangerous.” He stepped onto the boat and turned to face his wife. “It is a _row_ boat, on a _pond,_ for God’s sake.” He spread his arms, as if to draw her attention to an obvious fact that she had missed. “Now, come on. Get in.” He offered her his hand for assistance.

“Yes, Mummy! Get in! Get in!”

Emily clenched her jaw as she stepped off the dock and into the boat. She ignored his hand. “I do _not_ appreciate this, Edmund.”

He let his hand fall to his side with a slap as she found a seat at the opposite end of the boat. He squinted at her. She avoided his eyes. The happiness that had accompanied their entire day started to evaporate. He tried to narrow his focus to Mathilda--her radiant smile and the way her little body bounced with excitement as she took a seat beside her mother. _He_ had caused that--her elation--and he refused to allow Emily’s fear and hesitation to spoil the satisfaction he derived from it.

Without another word, Edmund rowed their boat away from the dock and into the middle of the lake.

All the while, Emily kept hold of Mathilda. She clutched Mathilda’s sleeve, her skirt, her hand. Edmund frowned, but Mathilda hardly noticed. If she _did_ notice, she did not care. She leaned over the side of the boat, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on the water.

Edmund dropped the oars, resting his arms, and relaxed as they floated without aim or direction. In this small pool, it seemed as if they were alone. The water lapped with a quiet rhythm against the side of the boat. Intermittent bird calls fells from the sky. Edmund heard the buzz-and-flap of wings as a crane swooped low and landed at the edge of a swatch of bulrush--a rare sight. Aside from those sounds, the world drifted about them with silent ease.

Meanwhile, Emily fidgeted with nervous discontent. She broke the silence with a loud exhale, a noisy puff of air.

He steered his eyes toward her with a severe tilt of his head. “She’s _fine_ , Emily.”

Emily’s head snapped toward him with the speed of an angry snake. “She can’t _swim_ , Edmund,” she hissed. “And _you_ put her on a _boat_.”

“We are both _here_. She will come to no harm, I promise.”

Emily sighed. Once. Twice. Then, she finally met his eyes. “It is--it is not _that_ , Edmund, which worries me.”

“Then _what_?”

“I am her _moth_ er.”

“Yes, I _know._ I was _there_ when you gave _birth_ to her.”

“Edmund.” She shook her head, frustrated. She curled her hands around one another in her lap. She twisted them in one direction, then another. “You can _not_ make unilateral decisions without considering my _feel_ ings, my _thoughts_ on a matter that concerns our _daught_ er. I--” She exhaled heavily. “I de _serve_ to be-- _Oh!_ _Tilda_!”

He tore his eyes from Emily to look upon their girl, who tottered over the edge of the boat. With no firm hand to keep her from spilling over the side, Mathilda’s feet left the floor as she tried to reach a fish that swam below the surface of the water.

“No! _No_ , Mathilda!” he shouted, lunging forward to grasp onto the back of her dress and jerked her into the center of the boat. She tumbled onto the floor, forcing their vessel to rock from side to side. All the world seemed unsteady.

In a heap between mother and father, Mathilda squealed. “That was _fun,_ Daddy!”  

In the span of a few seconds, Edmund suddenly understood Emily’s fear. He pictured the splash that Mathilda would cause as she fell into the water. He saw Emily’s stricken, horrified expression.

Swallowing hard, he shook his head and wrapped his hand around Mathilda’s thin forearm. He pulled her toward him and sat her on his knee. When he spoke, he forced himself to do so with a soft, but firm voice. “No, it wasn’t--it _was_ n't fun. You mustn’t lean out of the boat. It can be dangerous.”

Mathilda pouted, her bottom lip thrust outward. She crossed her arms. “But I wanted to pet the _fish_! They were _play_ ing!”

He glanced at Emily, not bothering to hide his worry. His regret. “They weren’t playing, darling,” he said. “They darted through the water because they were scared. So we shall watch them, not touch them. How’s that?”

“I...scared them?” she asked, her voice full of skepticism. She concentrated for a moment, then raised her chin to him. “N-o-o, silly Daddy. I’ve decided. Fish don’t get _scared_.”

“ _All_ creatures get scared, sweetheart.”

“ _You_ don’t. You’re _brave_ , my Daddy.”

His mouth fell open as he stared at her, touched. His face relaxed. So did his hold on her. Not for the first time, Mathilda made him feel undeservedly admired. A model of behavior.

He straightened the bow in her hair, the lay of her dress. “Well, _some_ times, even brave people get scared.”

Mathilda’s expression morphed into one of pure shock. Edmund nearly chuckled. “ _Really_?” she asked.

He nodded. “Really,” he replied with a kiss to her forehead. Scooting her off his knee, he whispered, “Now why don’t you go and sit with your mother, and I’ll row us ‘round the lake?”

Without further prompting, Mathilda settled beside Emily, who curved her arm around her daughter’s little shoulders.

Edmund had rowed around half the lake before he spied a shift in Emily’s posture. Sweat trailed down his back when he noticed Emily’s smile--easy and broad--spread across her face. He paused to rest under the shade of a willow, relieved to escape the summer heat, and watched as Emily pointed across the water.

“Look! The ducks, darling! They’re diving!”

A smile bloomed on his face when Mathilda responded with a loud series of _quacks._ He and Emily smiled at one another, both of them laughing as Mathilda tried to communicate with the ducks that bobbed and floated past their boat.

Mathilda _quack_ ed all the way to the shore.

As they disembarked, Edmund knelt down to draw even with his girl’s face. Emily tilted her head, puzzled, but waited with both hands on Mathilda’s shoulders. “Mathilda, would you like to learn how to swim?”  

Her face brightened. “Like the ducks?”

Edmund smiled at her. “Yes, exactly like the ducks.”

“Yes! Oh, please, Daddy!” She jumped, clapping her hands. Her curls bounced on her shoulders.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I shall teach you.”

“Now?”

“No, not now. But soon.”

He _felt_ , before he saw, Emily’s smile.

Happy with the plan, Mathilda ran, _quack_ ing, down the dock.

As Emily started to follow, Edmund stopped her, his hand on her arm. “Emily, you were--” He waited until she met his eyes, then let his hand drift down her arm and squeeze her hand. “You were right. But you must understand. I only wanted to make her happy.”  

“I know.”

Emily’s compassionate voice loosened a flood of relief in Edmund’s chest. He caressed her wrist with his thumb.

Edmund closed his eyes as she kissed him.

Her lips still touched his as she whispered, “It’s all right, Edmund.” She nudged the tip of his nose with hers before she stole another kiss. “But you _must_ , Edmund, you must teach her to swim.”

A breathless laugh burst from him as he threw his arms about her and drew her against him. “I shall. I shall.” He inhaled quickly, only to exhale it as another stuttery, relieved, _grate_ ful laugh.

As ever, Mathilda demanded their attention from the end of the dock. “Mummy! Daddy! Come _on!_ ”

Smiles lingered on both their faces as they held hands, walking toward their girl. Emily curled her hand around his arm and leaned close to him, whispering, “It was so wonderful, Edmund”--she brushed her hand through his hair at the back of his head--"to see her so happy.”

He nearly stumbled over his own feet as he looked at her. The sun cast a warm glow on her face. It lit her eyes, accentuating the gold, and tawny, and brown shades of her irises. Her hair, the same. All of it complex and beautiful, like her.

“Perhaps, she said, “we should take her to the sea. Show her its wonders. A _real_ boat. Oysters. An ocean beach.”

Bowing his head, he breathed a laugh. “So now I have two tasks, do I? Plan a holiday _and_ teach our girl to swim.”

“I’ll take care of the first if you take care of the second.”

He slid his hands into his pockets and quirked an eyebrow at her with a grin. “Deal.”

Mathilda knew how to swim by the end of the month.


	14. August 1886

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a seaside holiday, Mathilda shows off a discovery and gives her parents a quiet moment alone. 
> 
> Implied reference to S3E4 "Your Father, My Friend," when Bennet tracks Reid down to a beach where the Reids had once gone on holiday. This chapter is set on that beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to you all the readers of this story. I am so thrilled that you're still here! A special thank you to those who leave comments. I appreciate them so, so much. (I've been a bit slow in replying, but I will get to them--promise!)

In the three seconds that Edmund smiled at Emily, Mathilda disappeared. He had diverted his attention to watch Emily run barefoot across the sand, to weave through a swathe of tall grass. When he had looked to where Mathilda had last stood, he saw only the steep slope of a sand dune and a cloudless blue sky.

His heart nearly stopped.

He released a breath of relief when Mathilda revealed herself, only her head visible over the crest of the dune. “Daddy! Mummy!” she shouted. “Look what I found!”

Edmund outstretched his hand to Emily and waited for her, then climbed the dune to find Mathilda beside a break in the cliff wall. She smiled and dashed inside, like Alice into a door to Wonderland.

He and Emily had to crawl on their hands and knees to follow.

When he reached his daughter, Edmund stood and brushed the sand from his palms, his knees, his shins.

Mathilda’s arms spread wide. “Look!” Her little voice echoed.

Edmund allowed his eyes to adjust in the dark chamber. A narrow sunbeam illuminated the room. A dome curved above them. It’s wall appeared striated. Layered. Adorned with stripes of discernible color. At its apex, a round window admitted a shaft of white, summer light.

Emily took hold of his hand, and he squeezed her fingers—immediate and automatic. Her voice barely reached his ears when she whispered, “It’s so beautiful.”

Squinting, he studied the dome. Each layer owed its color not to rock or sediment, but to shells. Reflective and pearly, shades of pink, coral, ivory, even blue and amber. He released Emily’s hand and approached the wall for a closer inspection. Different shells composed each layer. The first layer, all cockles. The second, oysters. Each circular ribbon twinkled in the cavern, as if it someone had laid gems within the stone, not shells.

He inhaled and absorbed its beauty. He turned to offer Emily a faint twitch of a smile before he returned his eyes to this work of art. This treasure. This temple to the seaside.

“There must be thousands of shells here,” Emily mused.

“Do you think so, Mummy?”

“Indeed, darling.”

Edmund scanned from one side of the room to the other. No fraction of the wall was left bare. Shells of all kinds and all sizes covered every surface. “Millions, probably,” he added. He had no true, real sense of the number, but spoke with the desire to increase his girl’s sense of wonder.

“ _Millions_? Really?”

Edmund smiled broadly, rewarded.

“Can I count them, Daddy?”

Edmund raised his eyes to Emily, who nodded with a warm smile.

He shooed Mathilda into the depths of the cavern. “Go on.”

With a happy squeal, Mathilda ran off. Edmund and Emily stayed in the rotunda, their mouths open with admiration as their eyes studied the walls. As they circled the room, they drifted closer to one another. Their hands found each other’s. They sank to the floor, unconcerned for the state of their clothes, and stretched out beside each other.

Edmund wrapped his hand around her wrist. “The patterns,” he whispered. “They look Mediterranean.”

“Indian, perhaps.”  

Warmth swelled in his chest. He pressed his thumb to her wrist and felt her pulse, the _life_ of her. “They really are beautiful.”

“They are.”

Mathilda’s airy laughter carried from an adjacent chamber. The sound prompted them to look at each other, to smile at one another, lip-stretching and wide. Edmund lowered his eyes for a moment, biting his lower lip. He only raised his eyes—they instantly closed—when Emily lifted his chin and captured his mouth with a kiss. They broke apart several times—for breath, for deliberate, extended studies of one another’s faces, for shared smiles—then resumed their kiss, unhurried and relaxed.

When Emily turned onto her side, he copied her and draped his arm over her. He cradled his own head with his other arm and, in the silence, let his gaze wander the wall. “Here,” he said, pointing. “That looks like a turtle. There. See?”

Edmund heard the smile in her voice. “It does. Flippers and all.”

“And here.” He pointed at a cluster of blue shells. “A crocodile, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” she repeated, her tone saturated with happiness.

He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent, one he knew well, even here—away from home, mixed with sea water and the coastal breeze. His Emily. “My own sweet Emily,” he whispered, tightening his hold on her. He kissed the nape of her neck. The sea wind had loosened her hair, and he moved her thick, brown strands off of her shoulder, away from her face. His entire torso expanded when she grasped his forearm and squeezed hard.

  
“This here”—she paused, taken by a shiver as he pressed a kiss to her ear—“looks like an entire tree, does it not?”

Edmund purposefully directed his breath across her neck as he replied. “And we may pretend we are lying under its branches.”

Emily’s face turned toward him. She arched and pressed her body into his. Now, it was his turn to shiver.

The corners of her lips lifted as she whispered, “In its shade.”

He pulled her closer, love and desire coursing from his center to the tips of his limbs. To the very ends of his toes and fingers. His eyes closed. His lips brushed her skin when he added, “The breeze in our hair, rustling the grass.”

“Can you imagine?”

He lifted his head to look at her properly. “What?”

“Living here.”

A laugh skittered out of him, the sound laced with disbelief and fantasy. “What, _here_?”

Emily cozied herself into his arms, pushing backwards and pulling his arm further down, around her body. She grinned, as if in a daydream. “Our life naught but growing old. Catching fish. Eating. Sleeping. No one to—”

“No one to bother us,” he finished. He placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. “No one to interrupt us.” He conjured memories of countless interruptions—Abberline at his door, a constable at his dinner table while he and Emily dined out, his girl at the threshold, calling him back home with a feeble, desperate voice. “Perhaps one day,” he said, “we will settle by the sea.”

“Oh? When, do you think?”

“When I retire.”

Emily’s scoff scratched at his chest. She must have known, because she tried at once to comfort him with a smile. “Oh, Edmund. You and I both know that you will never."

“Never what?”

She turned to face him and wore an expression of compassionate pity. “Re _tire_ , my dear.” With an affectionate touch, she combed his hair away from his forehead. “You love what you do. You _are_ what you do.”

“Yes, but”—he shook his head and flattened his hand to the center of her back—“I cannot imagine doing it _all_ my life.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“You do not think so?”

“I  _know_ you, Edmund.” With a light touch, Emily stroked his cheekbone with her thumb. “You would _nev_ er find the purpose you seek by the sea, with no tasks to occupy your mind.” She smiled with soft affection. “Your _brill_ iant mind. I knew that long ago.”

He mirrored her gentle smile, full of the relief and gratitude that came with being accepted. Loved for oneself. His gaze moved all about her face—from her lips to her hairline, from the tip of her nose to the center of her eyes. He saw her love for him, bare on every feature, every line, every smooth, pale plane. His throat narrowed with emotion, with his own disbelief—at his own luck that he had fallen and had _remaine_ d in love with, a kind-hearted, sharp-witted, beautiful woman who saw his value. Admired him. Cared for him.

Gathering her flush against him, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck. He felt her hands push into his hair, then spread wide and hold his head. He sighed heavily; she echoed him.

Then another voice—meek and hesitant—echoed in the chamber. “Mummy? Daddy?”

Edmund raised his head. Mathilda stood nearby, peering at them with wide eyes. He tore himself away from Emily and reached for his daughter. “Mathilda, what’s the matter?”

“You were—you and Mummy, you fell down.”

He smiled at her, smoothing the sleeves of her dress. “No, no,” he assured her. “No, we were just looking for shapes in the shells.”

“Like in the clouds?”

“Indeed, like in the clouds.”

“But on the _floor_?”

“Do we not lie in the grass when we look for shapes in the clouds?”

Mathilda pondered for a moment. “Yes?” she responded, as if she were unsure.

“Yes, well, so we lie here, too,” he said, then guided her toward her mother. “But we need your help, it seems. Will you help us look for more shapes?”

Mathilda nodded and settled on the floor between them. He watched Emily point at the wall and smile. Emily was right; he could never stay here, but, for the moment, he understood the appeal of this quiet, mundane, seaside life. His family close. His work far away. A warm wash of peace flowed within him as he met Emily’s eyes and heard Mathilda’s voice rattle off an endless stream of animals and objects, all visible to her in the vibrant patterns on the wall.

As they left their secret grotto, Edmund plucked a shell from the floor and stashed it in his pocket before joining Emily in the sunshine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Margate Shell Grotto is real. I have clearly fictionalized its history here. A little girl did not, in real life, discover it, and it was discovered long before this chapter is set (originally found in 1835). This chapter conveniently ignores that. But I couldn't resist using it as a setting, because it seems positively gorgeous.


End file.
